


Seeking Light

by tigger89



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-01-28 18:18:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 41,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12612552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigger89/pseuds/tigger89
Summary: A Final Fantasy 14 fic written for NaNoWriMo 2017. The story takes place after the events of patch 4.0x in the game, and will contain spoilers up until that point. The universe of this story diverges from the game at that point, and later events(4.1+) will have no bearing on this work of fiction.In the wake of the liberation of Ala Mhigo, four strangers meet and find themselves united by a single goal: finding the Warrior of Light, who left shortly after the battle was won.





	1. The Vepar's Bill

Thunder crashed as a cold rain poured down onto the streets of Ala Mhigo. Amid the ruin a lone traveler walked, head down against the storm, a man so small that he was frequently required to pause in order to navigate around particularly large pieces of rubble. Under a nondescript, well-patched traveling cloak, a flash of lightning illuminated a red hat of a particular style, one not commonly seen in many years, tied to his hip. On his other hip, a well-used rapier hung in its sheath, a matching crystal focus secured beside it. In the distance, a flute sang, the music signaling a place of hospitality and life amid the aftermath of the city’s liberation. As the notes reached his ears, the red mage raised his gaze, rain falling beneath his hood to drip down his cheeks. It wasn’t far now.  
The Vepar’s Bill, the tavern was called, at least according to the splintered sign propped next to the front door. He wasn’t sure what a Vepar was — perhaps the local name for a tax collector, which would explain the bill, if not why one would name a tavern after it — but he was never one to turn down a dry room, a hot meal, and a stiff drink. Especially not when it appeared to be the only place of business currently in operation. Using both arms for leverage, he pushed the heavy door open, the sound of merriment spilling out into the streets as he slipped inside.  
A large fire crackled in the hearth, casting warm light over a common room packed to the brim with people of all sorts. Most wore no particular uniform, but among the soldiers he noted Gridanian colors, naturally, but also Lominsan and Ul’Dahn, and even Ishgardian blue. Out of the fire’s glow, in the dark corners of the room, lone individuals sat nursing tankards of what was undoubtedly the strongest, if not the finest, brew in the house. He closed his eyes, a smile coming to his lips as the scent of the room washed over him. Smoke, sweat and the stench of too many bodies, sure, but that was nothing compared to the delicious aroma of roasted meat and stew. It had been far too long since his last good meal.  
A shriek of delight came from across the room, where an Au Ra girl with the darkest scales he’d ever seen and skin to match whirled in time to the lively tune, skirts the color of ripe rolanberries swishing around her ankles as she danced an unfamiliar dance atop the table. A crowd of men — and at least one lady — had gathered, cheering and clapping as she danced wildly. The song ended and she made one final twirl before falling, arms out, to be caught by a lucky Elezen. Losing sight of the spectacle as it moved beneath the top of the crowd, the Lalafell decided it was past time he made his way to the counter. There was no telling how long the wait in the kitchen would be.  
He began to make his way through the crowd, politely at first but beginning to employ elbows and shoulders as the initial approach failed to yield results. Oh, what he would give to be a Roegadyn, sometimes! Nobody would dare to stand in the way of someone so tall, whereas a Lalafell, well, you’d be lucky if they even noticed you! And lucky was something he’d never been, certainly not lately. Coming all this way to fight in the liberation, and when does he arrive? Not four days since the fighting ceased, according to the guard at the gate. It was probably for the best, after all. The way his luck usually went, he probably would have brought the entire Garlean army down upon whatever position he’d taken up.  
Navigating around a Miqo’te, neatly avoiding the swish of his rust-red tail, a faint smile came to his lips as the crowd parted before him, revealing a tall counter, behind which the proprietor was busy taking orders, filling tankards, and shouting requests to his maids. All the counter seats were full with people as varied as the rest of the room’s contents, most — like the white-haired Hyur, deep in his cups from the looks of him — keeping to themselves as they ate but some joining in the social merriment. A pair of Midlander women laughed together, eyes locked on a tall, blushing Highlander. A shorter Hyur sang drunkenly, his arm looped around the shoulders of his Miqo’te friend, who seemed more intent on finishing her stew than joining in the song. At the far end, a pale, bespectacled Elezen woman was reading, bent over her tome as a tall Au Ra tried in vain to get her attention.  
“What’ll it be?” the owner said, leaning over the counter to get a good look at the diminutive man before him. “We’ve got dhamel, dhamel, and more dhamel, though the preparation is your choice, as is your brew. Coin up front.”  
“I’ll have it roasted, and a pint of something local,” the Lalafell ordered, reaching for his purse. He didn’t have the slightest clue what dhamel was, but he hoped it would be delicious. He could worry about finding work in the morning. For now, it was time to eat, drink, and relax.

\- - -

How was she supposed to relax with this irritation breathing down her neck? The pale Elezen stifled a sigh of irritation, channeling the emotion into the gesture of tucking a lock of her long, brunette hair behind her pointed ear. How many hints were needed? What manner of arcanum would she have to unleash to make this man leave her alone so she could finish her work? She wouldn’t be working in a busy tavern unless it was absolutely necessary — which it was, given the lack of intact facilities in this war-torn city — but irregardless, common courtesy was clear on the etiquette of the situation. It was a shame common courtesy was apparently so uncommon.  
She yanked her arm away as the Au Ra touched her, his ashen fingers brushing against the pristine white of her jacket.  
“I said I wasn’t interested,” she repeated, her terse words delivered in a calm, yet firm, tone that seemed to deflect right off the Au Ra’s dark horns as he tilted his head with a grin.  
“And I say you haven’t given me a fair chance. A lass like you, coming all by herself to a war zone? You didn’t come here just to read books. Come on, give me a smile. I bet you’re pretty when you smile.”  
Something inside her snapped, her control unraveling as quickly as a novice’s first attempt at summoning a carbuncle. Her fingers bent in an invocation as she called familiar runes to the front of her mind, but before she could deploy them a young man’s voice — calm and matter-of-fact, yet with a threat hiding behind every syllable — spoke from behind her.  
“The lady said she wasn’t interested. I suggest you listen before you get your own pretty smile blown right off your face.”

\- - -

The Miqo’te with rust-red fur folded his arms, with some difficulty due to the heavy bandages covering most of his right side — and some of the rest of him, too — making the limb stiff. With any luck the Au Ra hadn’t noticed, though he believed the Elezen had. Her attention was sharp, and seemed to take in everything that happened. It was a shame she didn’t have the common sense smarts to back up her apparent intelligence.  
“And who do you think you are?” The Au Ra bared his teeth, using every ilm of his height to loom over the much-smaller Miqo’te. It might have been threatening, maybe, if he hadn’t spent half his life sparring against Roegadyns. In light of his past experiences, the effort to intimidate was just pathetic. “Don’t think you’re going to come over here and charm your way into anything, furball. I saw her first.” Okay, now that was just uncalled for. Not unexpected, but still, uncalled for. The Miqo’te pulled his lips back in a light grin, an expression that didn’t reach his eyes, and shook his head.  
“Hardly. I actually came over to protect you.”  
“Protect me? From getting blown up, by the lass?” The Au Ra laughed, his eyes running over the Elezen all the way from black boots, over the white skirted jacket, to linger on the ruffled black collar that hid her neck from view, before snapping his attention back to the other man’s face. “Looks like you’re the one who needs protection from fire. What did you do, topple into a cook fire? Face first? What, did you see a shiny?”  
He resisted the urge to touch the bandages covering the right side of his face. There was no answer, except for one, that wouldn’t enflame this situation even further.  
“You’ve made your choice, then,” he said, with a shrug of his good shoulder as he turned away. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”  
So as not to miss the inevitable show, he made sure to walk slowly, taking note of a Lalafell traveler who seemed oblivious to the storm brewing just feet away.  
“What nerve that cat has, butting into another man’s business,” the boorish Au Ra continued. “What is that you’re reading, anyway? The Boy and the Dragon Gay, perhaps?” There was a brief pause, then a change in tone from charm to bafflement. “What kind of a book is this? It’s just strange symbols.”  
His ears pricked as he heard wood scrape against wood, followed by bootheels clicking against the floor of the tavern as the Elezen stood. He took a quick step to the side, shielding the Lalafell with his body, just in case. There shouldn’t be a need, not if she knew her stuff, but it never hurt to be sure. If his count was right, the invocation would be complete just...about...now.

\- - -

The sound of the explosion ripped through the tavern, silencing the merriment as hands went to sheaths. In the far shadowed corner of the tavern, a Highlander Hyur knocked her tankard to the floor, the sound of pewter clattering against the ground echoing through the sudden silence. A few heads turned her way, but most remained on the scene by the counter.  
“And that is why,” a heavily-bandaged Miqo’te proclaimed to the watching crowd, “you never part an Arcanist from her grimoire. I tried to warn him, you all heard me. No, let him go. He’ll think twice before he tries to pull that act again.”  
A chorus of agreement went up, most of the tavern’s patrons going back to their previous engagements, apparently satisfied that the disagreement had been localized and resolved itself with little damage to anything but the instigator. The Hyur in the corner frowned, irritated by both the interruption and the acrid stench that now filled the room. She groped for a cup that was no longer there, growling her displeasure at the loss of her drink. While she was deliberating whether or not she’d be able to make it to the counter for another, a hand slammed to the table next to her own. She peered up, squinting drunkenly at the three angry faces looking down at her. Well that’s just bloody great.  
“You have some nerve to drink in here,” the woman who had hit the table said. The insignia pinned to her chest was blurred by the drunken haze, but not so much as to obscure the fact that she was with the Immortal Flames. Shite. And the two tall men she had behind her as backup looked as if they’d stepped straight off the Bloodsands. Even more shite.  
“Just here like the rest of you,” the seated woman said, or tried to say, but the words slurred together and may not have all come out in the right order. Or at all.  
“No, you’re not like the rest of us. You’re a pathetic coward. A worm!” Heads were turning now, the new commotion attracting attention from the rest of the tavern’s patrons, but the woman didn’t notice. She grabbed the seated woman’s wrist and pulled, but was met with a snarl as the arm was wrested from her grasp.  
“Don’t touch me,” she tried to protest, but at a motion from the other woman her two comrades grabbed one arm each and hefted her from the chair, tossing her to the floor. She landed on her hands and knees, fumbling to get to her feet. She half succeeded, only to be sent sprawling again by a shove from the soldier.  
“Hey now,” a voice protested, the same one from before. The Miqo-te from before. The cute mi-kitty. She laughed, face inches from the floor, not even certain at this point what she was laughing about. Only that it was possibly the funniest thing that had ever happened. As she gasped for breath, recovering, people were still talking.  
“--were there! We were all there, damned near all of us at any rate. We all know what happened at the northern wall.”  
Gods damn it all. She didn’t want to think about the northern wall.  
“Isn’t that a matter for your superiors?”  
“She’s got connections, they wouldn’t do what needs done. To hell with a discharge, she should be rotting with the--with the prisoners, the Garlean prisoners, for what she did! Look, cat, I’m sure you’re good at what you do. And I appreciate the help, with whatever you did over there. From what I heard, that guy seemed like the biggest boor this side of the Rhotano Sea, so I’m sure you did good. But leave Flames matters to Flames, yeah? It’s none of your business.”  
The kitty was talking again, but it was hard to focus on words with her heart hammering in her ears. Or maybe that was the boot that crashed down just inches from her head. Hells. She scrambled away from the foot, desperately trying to recall which direction the door was, but even though she was laying flat on the floor the room wouldn’t stop spinning. There was shouting now, words that didn’t penetrate until the sudden shock of pain stabbing through her scalp as her face was hauled up off the floor, brutal hands clutching her braids.  
“Hey! I said, stop crawling away, worm! I’m not done with you you!”  
The grip on her hair released and she fell back down, gasping at the impact as the side of her skull knocked against the floorboards.  
“What do we do with cowards who can’t obey their orders? Eh?”  
A flash of crimson drew her attention, even as the soldier was shouting. A hat, on a belt, on a Lalafell. Poor little guy looked how she felt, jostled around by the angry crowd. Someone should help him get out of here. She pushed herself to her knees once more, only for her hand to slip from beneath her — something wet, on the floor — and cause her to fall again. She felt something fly by where her head had been just a moment before, followed by a cry of pain. It was the Lalafell, clutching a hand to his forehead, crimson to match his clothes now flowing down his face.  
Anger coursed through her, clearing her head enough to lunge to her feet, turning and catching a chair with both hands as it plunged towards her face. She yelled out, years of training taking over now that she was on her feet, and blocked another blow with her bare arm, not even noticing the shock of impact. The acrid stench was back, even stronger than before, and she fell to one knee, fighting her stomach as the smell grew even stronger. She didn’t even see the blow that connected with the base of her skull. Everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's my opinion that the best way to start off a good adventure story, much like a good game of D&D, is to dump a bunch of characters in a tavern and then do something awful to them. Concussions are optional.


	2. Awakening

Sound came back first. A screech of metal on stone, followed by a thunk and the click of a lock. Footsteps on stone, echoing away. Then, voices. A woman, low and matter-of-fact.  
“You’re lucky I didn’t leave you in there. I thought about it, you know.”  
Then, a man, light, almost flippantly nonchalant.  
“We both know you never would. You care too much.”  
“What possessed you? I haven’t seen a tavern brawl turned so nasty in years.”  
“I liked her spirit.”  
“Be serious! It wasn’t even your fight.” A pause. “Are you still drunk?”  
“Most likely. Care to help me to bed, so I can finish sleeping it off?”  
“Sometimes you are the most inconsiderate, idiotic man I have—”  
The voices, along with the footsteps, faded away.  
She was aware now of a hard, stone floor, the chill seeping through her clothes into her muscles and bones. And gods, the ache in her head. Not just a hangover, something sharper. It was coming back to her now. She’d been hit with something, after she fell. She’d been defending someone. The Lalafell! She forced her heavy eyelids open, immediately closing them as a shooting pain struck. Easy does it, nice and slow. Trying again, she peeked out at the room through slitted eyes.  
The stone chamber was lit by small, barred windows set high in each wall. The light filtering through the dusty air was dim, and the air chill, so it couldn’t be much after dawn. She wasn’t alone. She could see several other forms huddled on the floor and against the walls, cloaks — if they were lucky enough to have one — pulled tight around them to ward off the chill. She couldn’t see any small enough to be a Lalafell. Gritting her teeth against the pain, she turned her head to the other side, moaning between her teeth as the back of her head rolled over the rough stone floor. There was the gate she’d heard close. They were in a cell. That was just fantastic.  
“Morning,” a quiet voice came from behind her. She rolled over and pushed herself up, catching herself on her forearms as a wave of dizziness swept over her. She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them, looking for who had spoken.  
It was the Miqo’te from last night. He sat against the wall, dressed in a simple tunic and breeches, shaggy red hair hanging limp over what could be seen of his deeply tanned face around the bandages. His expression was neutral, watching her with neither a smile nor a frown. If anything, he seemed concerned. “How’s your head?”  
“Hurts. Where’s—” she stammered, disoriented as she tried to string words together. “Is the Lalafell—”  
“He’s fine, don’t worry. Danelle did what she could for him last night, and he’s resting now. I said she should do the same for you, but she wouldn’t. Something about wanting your consent.”  
“Bugger consent,” she muttered under her breath, pushing herself upright more carefully than before. The thin light in the room reflected off a thin layer of pale dust covering her dark skin, which she tried to brush off, in vain. “Who’s Danelle?”  
“An Arcanist, from the guild in Limsa Lominsa. She got picked up with the rest of us when the guards came to shut down the fight. Don’t worry, all the ones who were beating on us got dumped in another cell.”  
“Ah.” She was still mentally reeling from the events of the past day, let alone what happened before, but this Miqo’te’s calm was infectious somehow. It was getting easier to think, at least.  
“I’m C’loren, by the way. And that’s with a C, not a K.”  
“Chrissel. Chrissel Bladestorm.” Somehow the old gladiator name sounded absurd, rather than fearsome, when uttered in this prison cell. She was a long way from the Bloodsands.  
“So, Chrissel.” C’loren rested his left hand on his knee, ears pricked forward and head tilted to the side as he watched her. “Care to explain why that mob was trying to kill you?”  
“You know what happened, at the north wall. That was me, I was in command of that squad.” A bitter taste flooded her mouth as she spoke the admission and she looked down to the flagstones, unable to meet the man’s eyes.  
“Pretend I was bedridden on chirurgeon’s orders up until last night, and only have the vaguest idea what might have gone down.” She looked up at that, taking in the extent of his bandages. He probably had been, come to think of it. He genuinely might not know. “I did help save your life, remember. You owe me, and I’ll take the story of what happened as my payment.”  
“If I tell you,” she said, fingers curling into fists against the hard stone. “Do you promise not to attack me?”  
“I swear it, on my Ma’s life. I won’t raise a finger, no matter what it was you did.” He beckoned her closer and she scooted across the floor until she was close enough to speak in hushed tones.  
“I held a minor command, Corporal, not that it matters. Not anymore. They were my unit though, my men. I’d trained with them, and fought with them, and they were mine. I’d have died for them, and they’d have done the same for me. Then we got our orders. We were to hold a scout position along the north wall, mark and, if necessary, engage any reinforcements that tried to move south to take up a flanking position on the main attack. Simple, right?”  
An pale Elezen all in black — boots, breeches and shirt, with some fancy-pants ruffles betraying her wealth — had come over and crouched down beside C’loren, who greeted her with a nod. Maybe this was Danelle. The newcomer adjusted her glasses and moved a tangled lock of hair out of her face before giving Chrissel a single nod. “Go on,” she said, confirming the assumption about her upbringing. If that wasn’t the poshest Ul’Dahn accent Chrissel had ever heard, she’d eat her boots.  
“So, we’re about to leave, and my mate in another squad and I are talking, about our orders. And he doesn’t know what he’s saying, or at least not what it means, and neither do I at the time. It’s only once we’re underway, already moving into position, that I realize what it means. They lied to me. Reinforcements weren’t expected to come from the north, they were expected to come from the east.”  
She paused for a moment, emotions washing over her as they had the day of the mission. Confusion and shock, then betrayal, and finally cold anger. Who did the Lieutenant think he was, using her and her men this way, throwing them into the worst of the war grinder with no defense, not even a warning?  
“We were bait, sent on a suicide mission to draw out the enemy. The canary in the mine. And you know what happens to the canary?” She looked between them, one warm amber eye with a slit pupil and a pair of cold pale-green eyes, neither judging, but both listening intently. “The canary dies. That’s what happens.” Overcome with emotion, she took a ragged breath, pausing just long enough to calm herself before continuing.  
“It was a bad plan. So, I changed the plan. I moved my men to a better position, one where we could defend the eastern approach. It was a good plan, and it would have worked.”  
“If they’d come from the east,” Danelle said, her voice soft. Chrissel nodded.  
“Right. It turns out, the intelligence the bad plan was based on was flawed. Which made it a good plan. The best plan. If I’d stuck to it.”  
When the Garleans had come down from the north, it had been a slaughter. Trapped under a fallen Magitek device shortly after the start of the engagement, she had been powerless to help as she heard her squad fall, one by one. She hadn’t witnessed what came next, but she’d seen the aftermath, and heard the story. A path of un-opposed devastation, carved nearly all the way to the main force. By all accounts, it had been a disaster, coming very close to crippling the main attack force. And it was all her fault. After a long moment of silence, C’loren spoke.  
“It sounds to me like you did what you thought was right, with the information you had at the time. I can’t fault you for that. I might have done the same, in your place.”  
“It’s still my fault. If I hadn’t changed the plan—”  
“They might have died all the same,” he interrupted, shaking his head. “I can’t blame you for doing what you thought was right. You had no way of knowing the intelligence was wrong, and if you’d followed the plan knowing what you knew, you would have been complicit. And that’s not right.”  
Before Chrissel could reply, Danelle moved next to her, gesturing to Chrissel’s head.  
“May I?” Chrissel nodded, and the Elezen began to inspect the back of her head. Despite the other woman’s gentle touch, every tugging of her matted braids sent pain shooting straight into her brain, causing her to grimace. After a few moments, Danelle sat back on her heels, pulling a white handkerchief from her pocket to wipe blood — dried and damp alike — off her pale fingers. “You likely have a concussion. I can’t do much for that, not without my codex, but I have enough of the arcanum memorized to close your wounds at least. If you’d like.”  
“You don’t use a grimoire?” C’loren’s ears twitched as he asked the question, one eyebrow raising in confusion. “I thought all Arcanists used grimoires.”  
“No. Well, yes. Normally you’re correct. But I have a codex.” She fixed him with a flat stare, as if daring him to contradict her, then turned back to Chrissel. “Did you want me to heal what I could?”  
“Yes, please.” She bent her head for easier access, wrinkling her nose as the smell from last night wafted through the chamber. Gods, this was almost as bad as walking past the Thaumaturges guild back home in Ul’Dah. If she was a mage, she’d find a spell to make magic stop smelling so bloody awful!  
“That’s all I can do for now. It might not feel better yet, but it’ll heal easier in time. Oh, good. You’re awake.”  
Chrissel looked up, confused, but that last statement hadn’t been addressed to her. The Lalafell from the previous night had emerged from what she’d assumed had been a pile of discarded clothing. His crimson jacket was rumpled, his goatee full of dust, and his dirty blond hair stuck out every which way, but to her relief he seemed to be none the worse for wear under it all.  
“I have to say,” he said, “with all this talk of whose fault everything is, it’s my turn to apologize.”  
“You’re a Garlean spy?”  
“No!” The Lalafell’s green eyes narrowed, shooting C’loren a glare. “Don’t even joke about that, man! No, I’m not a Garlean spy. I’m just cursed. Cursed with bad luck. Everything that went wrong last night, it started after I arrived at the Vepar’s Bill, didn’t it? I brought it down upon you, and I’m terribly sorry.”  
“What are you on about?” C’loren dismissed the suggestion with a wave of his hand. “She went to drown her sorrows in the tavern most frequented by Eorzian Alliance soldiers. Fate didn’t need an invitation to come knocking on that door. It’s not your fault, uh—”  
“Rororiku. Rororiku Nonoriku. And I know you don’t believe me, nobody does, not at first.”  
“It can’t be that bad,” C’loren said. “After all, we all have bad luck from time to time. Not all of us can be, say, the Warrior of Light, having everything line up to go our way every time.”  
“You know the Warrior of Light?” Danelle’s tone was sharp, almost excited, her eyes fixed on C’loren. “Where are they?”  
“Relax,” he said, amusement mixing with confusion in his voice. “Never met the man. Or the woman, I suppose. I only saw them once, from a distance, and to be honest I didn’t get a good enough look to tell for certain. Why, you looking for them?”  
“It’s my current guild assignment. The Ala Mhigan front was the Warrior of Light’s last known location, but by the time I arrived they were nowhere to be found.” Deflated, she settled back on her heels with a short sigh. “So far, no leads. Only dead ends.”  
“Well,” Chrissel said, “if they ever let us out of here, I wouldn’t mind joining the search. I’ve heard the stories, too, and I wouldn’t mind having a talk with them myself. Get it settled for good, from a real hero, as to what I could have done differently.”  
“Sounds like an expedition,” C’loren said, looking over to Rororiku. “You should come along, too. See if some of that Warrior of Light luck won’t rub off on you.”  
“You know what? Sure. Provided we ever do get out of here, and aren’t forgotten and left to rot forever, which would be just my luck.”  
“You’re quite the optimist,” Chrissel sarcastically observed, an amused smirk rising to her lips in spite of the events of the past few days.  
“I prefer to think of myself as a realist, thank you very much.” Heads turned as a door opened in the distance, footsteps approaching down the hall. “And here come our executioners now, I’m sure.”  
With another shriek of metal on stone, the cell gate opened once more. The guard consulted a paper, then pointed in turn to C’loren, Chrissel, Rororiku and Danelle. “You four, on your feet. You’re coming with me.”  
Chrissel’s stomach dropped, and she saw Rororiku had grown quite pale. “I was only joking,” he muttered, half-under his breath.  
“May I ask why?” Danelle said, managing to retain her composure. She even looked elegant as she rose from the crouched position she’d held during their entire conversation.  
“You lot are being released. Fine’s been paid in full, so you’re free to go, provided you don’t start any more trouble. We won’t be so kind on a second offense.”  
The fine had been paid? By who? Chrissel saw her confusion mirrored on the faces of the others, but kept her mouth shut as they followed the guard out of the cell. As they filed down the hallway, C’loren spoke quietly, so only they could hear.  
“Meet by the south gate tomorrow at sunrise, ready to travel. Also, you’re full of it, Rororiku. If this isn’t luck, I don’t know what is.”

\- - -

C’loren leaned back against the short wall, his good hand holding tight to his chocobo’s bridle. Cliffracer was usually steady, but it was better to be safe than sorry. In a place like this, anything could happen with very little warning, and you never could know what might spook a chocobo, even one bred for temperament. At the sound of footsteps, he looked back over his shoulder, offering Danelle a quick smile. She’d retrieved her jacket and codex, and was wearing both. Hardly practical traveling clothes, but a guild Arcanist more than likely had a couple tricks up her sleeve to stay presentable.  
“Morning,” he said as she approached.  
“Good morning. I purchased some supplies for the expedition. Tents, rations, and so on.”  
“I usually travel rough, and hunt for what I eat, but I suppose it can’t hurt. Just one question, though. Where is it?”  
“Oh! I had it delivered to the stables, for Chrissel to pick up. I couldn’t carry it all by myself, you know. And it wasn’t difficult to find out where her chocobo was stabled.” Smart. Then again, why had he expected any less of a guild Arcanist? There was only one possible complication.  
“Does she know she’s supposed to bring it?”  
“By now she will.” Danelle shrugged, noticeably careful to keep a small buffer of air between her white coat and the dusty wall. “She’s not unintelligent, that much is obvious. When she gets there, she’ll figure it out.”  
“Something was bothering me all day yesterday.” He looked to Danelle for a reaction, continuing when she raised a quizzical brow. “I know why I stepped in, and Rororiku just stumbled into the whole mess. But why did you stand up for her? From everything I know about the guild, they love their proper channels, so—”  
“You believe,” she said, speaking directly over him, “that any member of the guild would stand by as a lynch mob not only forms, but then proceeds to execute somebody, regardless of their crime? We follow law and order, and vigilante justice is neither. Any member of the guild should have done the same.”  
“No offense, but that’s hardly the experience I’ve had with the Arcanists guild. None of the members I’ve ever encountered would have raised a finger to put a stop to that.”  
“I said should, not would. And that’s all I have to say on the matter.” She turned away, signaling an end to the conversation. The awkward silence stretched on for several minutes, until the unmistakable footsteps of a chocobo sounded on the dusty road. Turning once more, he saw Chrissel approaching, baggage all loaded, with Rororiku — complete with a dashing red hat — riding atop the whole production. She had donned some well-worn armor, obviously her personal kit rather than anything company-issued, and had a sword strapped to her hip. He’d initially taken her for a Marauder back in the Vepar’s Bill, but he supposed something had been off about her technique. Gladiator was obviously the better fit.  
“Hey!” Chrissel called, drawing out the word as she held her hand high in greeting. “Did the chirurgeon say you were able to travel?”  
“He sure didn’t,” C’loren admitted. “That’s why I’d rather we get on the road as soon as possible, if that’s alright with everyone.”  
Chrissel nodded. “It’s alright with me. Just let’s re-load some of this baggage first. You could have sent a note, you know.” The last was directed to Danelle, who shrugged in response. “Oh, that’s a nice piece,” Chrissel said, as C’loren turned away, displaying the black steel gun strapped across his back.  
“Thanks,” he replied, as he directed the re-balancing of the chocobo load. It was frustrating that he couldn’t help much, but the chirurgeon had been explicit in his instructions not to lift anything heavy until the wounds had healed. As the others worked, he voiced the obvious question. “So, we have all this stuff, but do we know where we’re going?”  
“Yes, we do!” Rororiku said, grinning broadly as Chrissel nodded her agreement. “I happened to overhear something very interesting just last night!”  
“Oh?” Danelle asked, moving a finger in a hurry-up gesture.  
“Yes, well, the long of it can wait until we’re on the road. But the short of it is, I’m quite certain that the Warrior of Light has left riding west, all the way back to the resistance camp.”  
“You mean Rhalgr’s Reach?” C’loren asked.  
“The very same,” Chrissel replied. “And if we mean to catch them up, we’d better get riding.”  
“Agreed. Danelle, you’re with me, if you don’t mind.” Noting the Elezen’s dubious glance to the chocobo’s spindly legs, he quickly moved to reassure her. “Don’t worry, she was bred to carry Roegadyns in full battle kit, so I’d be surprised if she even notices there’s two of us. She’ll see us to Rhalgr’s Reach, no problem.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Warrior of Light has been left vague on purpose. Feel free to substitute the character of your choice, for your mental image.
> 
> Future chapters will be posted as they are completed.


	3. The First Expedition

The sun shone strong overhead, harsh rays beating down upon Rhalgr’s Reach. The camp was only sparsely populated, even more so than when Danelle had previously passed through. Water quietly flowed behind the cluster of shattered masonry they’d stopped at, nourishing a thin covering of grass. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to graze the two chocobos while other matters were attended to.  
“I’m glad most everybody has moved east,” C’loren said, wincing as Danelle teased a bandage off his shoulder. “Before, when they assembled us here for the invasion, you’d be lucky to find a place to stand, let alone to sleep or eat. If you were in a grand company, of course, they took care of you. But us free volunteers were left to find our own place to put out a bedroll. Do you have to pull so hard? You’re taking off the healed bit along with the cover!” He scowled, but she was unmoved by the display. It was his own fault.  
“I told you the bandages should have been changed yesterday,” she explained, paying no mind to his sulking as she moved on to the next bandaged section. “You were the one who refused to take the time to stop.”  
“I was afraid Rororiku would get eaten by that giant marid if we made camp there,” he said. “If we’re being honest, I was even a bit afraid I’d get eaten if we stopped. I’ve seen marid before, don’t get me wrong, but that one was something else entirely.”  
“Unless you’re a tree, you had nothing to worry about. Marid are strict herbivores.” Pulling the last of the bandages off, she took a step back, surveying the state of his injuries. The scar just above and behind his hip was old, and from a slashing wound besides, not the recent burn injury. The burns were healing well, she had to commend the chururgeon for his excellent triage work. The ones on his neck and face — reaching all the way up to his brow — had either seen more treatment or were less severe to begin with, and were already scabbed over. His eye had even been spared, though whether by skill of the chirurgeon or sheer luck she couldn’t say.  
“I want to bandage your shoulder and side again, but the other burns are healing well enough to be left open. I’m going to visit the infirmary and see what supplies they have for sale. Don’t wander off.”  
“Me? Wander off?” He smirked, leaning his good shoulder against the broken pillar behind him. “I never would. Don’t give me that look, I’m being honest! I’ll stay put, right here. I swear. Maybe by the time you’re done, the others will be back with some news.”

\- - -

“What do you mean, he says we can’t go in?” Rororiku rose on his toes, puffed up in indignation as he peered around Chrissel towards the weathered gatekeeper. “Whyever not?”  
They stood by a two-tiered water basin, in the center of a stone cavern carved out of the mountainside. Surrounding the narrow walkway was a shallow pond, in which luminous red lilies grew. The only other illumination came from torches lining the path and set into the stonework, the overall effect being one of deep mystery. Fitting, for the ancient training grounds of an all-but-extinct martial order. There was only one obstacle in their way.  
“He just keeps saying that only those of sound mind and body may enter,” Chrissel explained. “I told him that I knew my letters and numbers just fine, wasn’t any madder than anyone else, and placed damn high on my physical training tests, but he wasn’t hearing any of it. He just took one look at me, and shook his head.”  
Rororiku had to admit, she wasn’t an encouraging sight. Her armor was well-worn, frayed in places, and her shield and sword each had countless chips and nicks. If he hadn’t seen her fight back in the Vepar’s Bill, he wouldn’t trust her to fetch water for the cook pot. He rested the tip of his index finger on the center of his mouth as he pondered the situation, curling it along the crack of his lips as his mind raced. The man looked to be Highlander, just as she was, so it was unlikely this was a racial judgment. As reluctant as he was to consider the possibility, and even more so to utter it out loud in front of Chrissel, perhaps it was because she was a woman?  
“Maybe I’d best give it a try,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “Maybe the sight of a Lalafell, an uncommon race in these parts, could make him reconsider?”  
“Maybe, I don’t know. You’re not dressed any better than I am.” She scoffed at his wide-eyed expression of innocence. “Oh, come on, don’t look at me that way. I saw you look me over, I know what you were thinking. And it wasn’t that I’m a Hyur.”  
It was true. When his crimson coat and trousers, and their accompanying boots and gloves, had been gifted to him, they were by all appearances brand new. But over the past year of rough travel, the cloth had become worn, the leather scuffed, and the metal fittings no longer shone sharp. Even the hue of his hat had faded somewhat, though it still looked the best out of the entire uniform.  
“Regardless, I’m going to give it a try. If the best happens, we get to go inside. If the worst happens, well, we’re no worse off than we were before. At least, I can’t think of a situation in which we’d be worse off.”  
“What if his family was murdered by a deranged Lalafell, and he swore a bloody oath to rid the world of your kind?” She smirked, folding her arms as she looked down at him.  
“Chrissel?” He addressed her in a stern voice, utter disapproval written in every part of his face.  
“Mhm?”  
“Not. Helping. I’m going to try.” He turned on his heel and strode off towards the gatekeeper, chin high and what he hoped was an expression of confidence on his face. The gray-haired man folded his arms as Rororiku approached, looking down at the tiny man.  
“Good afternoon!” Rororiku tried, earning a grunt in reply. “I’m here seeking passage to the, ah, the Temple of the Fist! That door right behind you, there.”  
“So you are.” The gatekeeper’s arms remained folded, his face impassive.  
“Well, I hear you’re the man to speak to, as regards, well, going inside?” Oh, dear. This conversation had gone much better in his head.  
“I already told your friend how it is, nothing’s changed.”  
“My friend? What friend?” The eyes hadn’t worked on Chrissel, and it was blindingly apparent that they weren’t working now, either. A scowl darkened the gatekeeper’s face.  
“I ain’t stupid. I saw the two of you come in together, and you were talking right over there just now. Now bugger off, I said everything I had to say to the tall one.”  
“Very well,” Rororiku replied, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice as he turned to walk away.  
“Wait! I said, hold a moment!” At the change in tone, he halted, glancing back over his shoulder. The man had followed him and knelt down an arm’s length away, pointing to his hip where the crystal focus hung. “That there, I didn’t see that before. Light’s not great in here, and my eyes aren’t how they used to be. Is that what I think it is?”  
“Well, that depends,” Rororiku answered, still somewhat put out by his earlier treatment, and more than a little confused, at the moment. “What do you think it is?”  
“You’re one of them Red Mages, aren’t you?” Was that awe in his voice? No, that couldn’t be right.  
“Yes, I am. What of it?” Despite the abrupt shift in the man’s attitude, Rororiku couldn’t bring himself to warm up to him quite yet.  
“I heard you lot were coming back, but I didn’t believe it. Well, this changes everything.” He leveraged himself to his feet, grimacing as his limbs straightened. “Call your friend back over. We’ve got matters to discuss as pertains to the Temple.”  
“You’re going to let us in, just like that?” He raised an eyebrow, not quite following the direction this conversation was going.  
“Like I said, if you’ve truly got red magic, that changes everything. As far as I’m concerned, you and yours are welcome in the Temple of the Fist.”

\- - -

“I don’t get what makes this place so special.”  
Danelle looked over to Chrissel as the Highlander spoke, raising one eyebrow questioningly, before gesturing out to the flowing waters that surrounded the raised walkway. It was a beautiful sight, crafted, abandoned and then preserved in secrecy for the entirety of the Garlean occupation. You didn’t have to be a connoisseur of gardens to appreciate it.  
“No, I see that. I’ve got eyes. It’s damn beautiful, don’t get me wrong. I just don’t get why they had to build this place halfway up the bloody mountain. Why not just train on the ground?”  
“For tradition and mysticism, of course,” C’loren answered, closing his eyes and raising his face to meet the wind. It blew his hair back as he spoke, but he pitched his voice loudly enough so as not to let it be blown away. “What’s unnerving me is how deserted this path has been, so far. We should have met something by now.”  
“Not necessarily,” Danelle said. “My understanding is that the Warrior of Light just came this way, yes?” She looked to Rororiku for confirmation, continuing on after his nod. “It logically follows that anything aggressive would have met its end, yet not enough time has passed for anything new to take its place. Most likely, we’ll enjoy the easiest pilgrimage to the Temple anyone has ever experienced.”  
“And she’s still supposed to be up here, the Warrior of Light?” As she spoke, Chrissel gave Rororiku a boost over a mess of green slime that had spilled over the stone walkway, following with a long stride.  
“I asked around, and nobody in Rhalgr’s Reach could confirm seeing them come down the mountain.” C’Loren followed her example, hopping a little to make it over the mess, tail swung out for balance. Danelle saw that he walked gingerly after landing, and made a mental note to scold him for the careless behavior if he repeated it. For her part, as she was nearly as tall as Chrissel, Danelle had little trouble in avoiding the substance, whatever it might be. They ascended to the next level of the walkway, discovering more of the green slime dribbled down the stone staircase. A still-intact green pod appeared to be the source of the mess, so she warned the group off with a slash of her hand and shake of her head. There was no telling what the stuff might do, if they touched it. Then turned left at a large, round dais, ascending into another dark tunnel with steep stairs.  
“Don’t fall down,” Chrissel advised, needlessly. “It’s a long tumble.”  
“Why did you have to say that?” Rororiku said, amid the huffing and puffing as his little legs worked the long stairs. “I was doing a good job not thinking about it, until you mentioned it!”  
C’loren was the first to emerge from the tunnel, and he immediately took a step back, ears back and arm held out to stop Chrissel. “Careful,” he advised. “It’s just a natural path up here, and it’s narrow. We must be almost to the top, so I wouldn’t look down if I were you.”  
A strong wind tugged at her jacket, tossing her hair, as she emerged into the mid-day light. Against advisement, she looked down anyway, the sight causing her breath to catch in her throat. The view was incredible. She could see all of Rhalgr’s Reach from up here, and even out into the Fringes. To her right was the immense head of the giant carving of Rhalgr, the guardian deity of Ala Mhigo, who stood watch over the camp. C’loren was right, they had to be nearly there.  
A rhythmic clunking and scraping called her attention to the path ahead, where large stone pistons blocked passage. They each released in turn, a stone block shooting across the path at great speed. Then, they pulled back, masonry scraping against the natural rocks that dotted the ground’s surface. A moment later, the entire process would repeat.  
“Just gotta go at the right time,” Chrissel said, squaring her shoulders as she faced down the first piston. “Now the timing’s tight, don’t get me wrong. But once you feel it, it’s easy as breathing.”  
“Oh, I’ve never been any good at this,” Rororiku moaned, stepping backwards into the cave mouth. Danelle raised a warning hand, but C’loren moved faster, grabbing the collar of the Lalafell’s jacket with his good hand just as the man’s arms started to wheel. He cried out in surprise, clutching C’loren’s arm as he regained his balance. “Th—thank you,” he stammered, eyes wide, one hand ensuring that his hat was firmly seated upon his head. “Maybe I should just go back down, I can wait for you all back at the entrance. That might be best.”  
“Nonsense,” Chrissel said, walking back over and going down on one knee before the Lalafell. “We’re not going to leave you behind.”  
“You don’t understand, though,” he said, her words failing to have the intended calming effect. “My sense of rhythm, well, I don’t have one!”  
“It’s just like a dance,” she replied, but he shook his head so violently that the hat nearly took flight.  
“I can’t even dance, that’s how bad it is! If I try to walk down that path, I’m going to end up squashed all the way down on the ground, I just know it!”  
“Stay calm,” C’loren said, looking from them to Danelle. “Maybe there’s some magic that could, I don’t know, bring him across?”  
She nibbled the inside of her lip, thinking. There was no direct arcanum that would provide the desired effect, but theoretically it would be possible to combine individual runes to provide the desired effect. There would be side effects, of course. There were always side effects. But side effects could be minimized, with the proper preparation. She opened her codex, flipping through the pages as she worked to mentally assemble a spell, her perception of the rest of the world dimming as she lost herself in the arcanum.  
She could feel the symbols whispering to her, not with words, something else. A deeper level of understanding than the flimsy paper of her codex could supply. Minimizing the side effects was trivial, but the result was unbalanced. By balancing the spell, bringing every relevant quantity to cancel each other out, different side effects were introduced. It was maddening, as the development of new spells always was! There was a reason most Arcanists stuck to the tried and true basics. Her eyelids fluttered closed as she mentally tallied a list of numbers. A 5.6% chance of permanent insanity for the subject, no, that was too high. Far too high. Perhaps if she threw out that entire part of the equation, and started from scratch with a different approach—  
A hand on her arm startled her out of her thoughts, the half-constructed spell falling to mental pieces all around her.  
“You okay?” C’loren appeared concerned. “You were just standing there, staring at your book.”  
“I was thinking,” she said, her irritation coloring her words. Everything she’d managed to assemble had been lost, jarred out of her mind as she was interrupted. Granted, it had been incomplete garbage, but it had still been a start.  
“Sorry,” C’loren said, ears twitching downwards. “We’re alright, though. We’ve got it.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. Looking past him, she saw Rororiku riding on Chrissel’s back, arms clutched tight around the Highlander’s broad shoulders. They’d already passed the first two pistons, and were approaching the next set. “They’ll beat us all the rest of the way up if we don’t get a move on,” he said, and she nodded, closing her codex before replacing it on her belt. They might be near the top, but there was still a ways to go. If this path was any indication, the difficult part of the expedition had just begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't sure where to take these guys first, and then I thought about it. Where would the WoL go? Where did we all go, immediately after beating the MSQ? We ran and did the level 70 dungeons, of course. So, naturally, that's where the WoL would have gone.
> 
> I have yet to find a group that will let me just wander around and stare with my authorly eyes instead of running through the place as quickly as possible, though. So, youtube it is. Hopefully I haven't missed any striking(sorry...) details.


	4. Guardians of Stone

The heat of the day wore on them as they continued their ascent up the mountain. For the first time since setting out from Limsa Lominsa, Danelle began to regret her choice of attire. The jacket held its own against the cool sea breezes common on the island of Vylbrand, but in the Fringes of Gyr Abania it was hardly appropriate attire. Out of all of them, C’loren, with his light laced jacket, seemed to be faring the best, but even he had to call for a short rest in the shade provided by a towering stone gate, currently open.  
“How much farther?” Rororiku complained, sipping from his canteen. “I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but my legs have to work twice as hard as the rest of yours. This has been quite the hike!”  
“It can’t be much farther,” Danelle said. “We’re not far below the peak, it’s just a matter of circling around until we reach the Temple.”  
“I think I can see the temple from here, actually.” Chrissel spoke from atop a pile of rubble, shading her eyes to better peer up the path ahead. “It’s not far at all.”  
“Hey, Chrissel?” C’loren said, standing at the foot of the rubble pile.  
“You can call me Chris,” she said, looking down to him. “Everyone does, nobody uses my full name.”  
He nodded, then nudged the pile of rubble with his foot before looking back up to her. “Did you take a look at this before you climbed up there?”  
“No?” Chris said, sliding down the heap with a clatter of metal on stone. “It’s just a bunch of rocks, right?”  
“I’m not so sure,” he said, crouching down and poking at them. “Looks like it was a statue, and recently, too. The stone is only weathered on the outside, not the inside, right? So it didn’t break apart until recently.” Her interest piqued, Danelle stood and walked over to join them, looking over the Miqo’te’s shoulder as he continued to poke at the pile of rubble. “And this here,” he said, tapping a translucent green stone with the tip of his finger, “I’m no expert, golems aren’t my thing. But that looks just like of of those things that you put in something if you want it to move when it normally wouldn’t, you know?”  
“A soulstone,” Danelle supplied.  
“Yeah, that. I’ll bet anything this was moving around before the Warrior of Light came through.”  
“Damn,” Chris said, taking a look at the size of the pile of rubble. “It must have been huge. And that’s not the only mess like this, I see at least four more nearby.”  
“I’m starting to think we’re very lucky we weren’t the ones who had to clear this place out,” C’loren said, standing up.  
“Agreed,” said Rororiku, who had joined them in studying the pile. “And um, just to be clear. There isn’t any way these golems would spontaneously re-construct themselves, is there?”  
C’loren and Chris exchanged looks, both heads swiveling to Danelle in search of an answer. “It’s unlikely,” she said, looking at the state of the rubble, “and if it’s going to happen, usually it takes place immediately after destruction. But theoretically—”  
“Alright, rest’s over!” C’loren interrupted her, beckoning the group forward. “I really don’t want to stick around here if one — or more — of these things could theoretically re-assemble themselves and start stomping around the place. Temple’s just ahead, it should be cool inside.”  
They maintained a quick pace up the final stretch of the path. Past a second set of gates lay another stone dais, much like the one they’d passed further down the mountain. This one, however, wasn’t empty. In the center, there lay a pile of stone, larger than the destroyed golems they’d passed on the way up.  
“I’m extra glad I didn’t have to fight that one,” C’loren remarked. “Thank you, Warrior of Light.”  
“It’s not the same as the other ones,” Rororiku said, approaching the pile. “The stone’s different, look.”  
He was right. While the other golems had been made from the same tan blocks that had been used to construct the rest of the Temple complex, this one was constructed from stone of a darker gray. Its form was also different, more humanoid and less bestial, though it appeared to have extra limbs. In fact, the more she studied it, the more it seemed as if it wasn’t shattered so much as simply sleeping, in a hunched posture.  
“Don’t touch—” C’loren began, at the same time as Danelle began to say, “you probably shouldn’t—” but neither managed to get the words out in time. Rororiku reached out, giving the stone a light flick. For a brief moment she believed they were okay, but that notion was quickly dispelled as scarlet light spilled from the golem’s eye sockets.  
“Hells!” Chrissel swore, beginning to move towards the main Temple building, but before she could take her second step the stone gates swung shut with a resounding boom, blocking both exits of the circular platform. Rororiku stumbled backwards as the golem surged upwards, revealing itself to be of slender construction with four long arms, each ending in a wicked blade. Beside her, she heard a mechanical click as C’loren drew his gun, taking aim, though he didn’t fire yet.  
“Training exercise initiated,” the golem spoke, its voice deep and booming, backed by a loud grinding sound. “Previous results: excellent. Training exercise difficulty increased.” It turned to Rororiku, raising all four of its swords. Belatedly reaching for her codex, she began the invocation to shield him. It was too late, though. The swords were already in motion, not even slowing down as three gunshots came in quick succession. She closed her eyes, unwilling to watch the inevitable. But rather than the sound of a blade rending cloth and flesh, she heard an impact on metal. Her eyes shot open.  
Chris stood between the golem and the Lalafell, shield held high to intercept the blow, her face twisted in a grimace of effort. “Do something useful!” she shouted to the side where they stood, spurring Danelle back into action. It was a simple twist of the spell, to pick a different subject, one accomplished with only a few runes. Her magic flowed into Chris, rejuvenating her and shielding against further damage, for a time. Not long, though. She needed help.  
She found the desired page in her codex easily enough, glancing through the long sequence of runic parameters. As she began the long invocation, she heard C’loren firing once more. The recoil couldn’t be easy on his still-healing arm. It would likely set his recovery back by days, if this kept up. She shook her head, pushing the thoughts away as she focused on what she was doing. This was important. She closed her eyes as the cast finished, feeling the aether flow from her as it took physical form. Opening her eyes, she saw a blue-winged faerie fluttering before her. Maia.  
“Run!” the golem boomed, pointing one long sword at Rororiku. With a cry of horror, he turned, nearly dropping his rapier, and sprinted towards Danelle and C’loren. Ignoring the Lalafell’s antics, Danelle focused on Chris, who was still taking most of the beating. With her own efforts and Maia’s magics combined, Chris’s wounds begin to knit as strength was restored to her trembling limbs. This was messy, but they could recover. Suddenly, the ground began to quake, as if giant footsteps were racing closer and closer. She was only dimly aware of Rororiku running past her, screaming, as she scanned the arena for the source of the sensation. Then, she was on the ground, grit in her mouth and hair, and something was blasting past her, just a hair’s breadth from her feet. She tucked her knees, gasping in surprise as C’loren rolled off her, checking his weapon.  
“Run in a circle over there if that happens again!” he called to Rororiku, pointing on the far side of the arena with his good arm. Then, he turned his attention to Danelle. “You alright?”  
“I think so,” she said, pushing herself up to sit next to him. “Thanks.”  
“Don’t mention it.” He clambered to his feet, offering Danelle a hand as the golem unleashed a particularly violent flurry of blows. Upright once again, she assessed the situation. Maia was still aloft, and had done her best to keep Chris going, but Danelle didn’t like the way the Hyur was holding her arm in anticipation of each attack. Something was damaged, there. She took a deep breath, channeling a flow of aether from deep inside herself to strengthen, to repair. Fortified anew, Chris redoubled her attack, striking with her own sword during the moments when she wasn’t pushed entirely on the defense.  
“For!” the golem roared in Chris’s face.  
“Against!” she screamed in response. Some kind of strike from the golem slammed into her, steel sabatons grating against the masonry as she was pushed back nearly a yalm.  
“Aft!” came the booming voice once more.  
“Move!” C’loren shouted, knocking into her once more. She let him push her, stumbling to the side as a blast of energy flew backwards from the golem, through the point they’d been standing. For, and aft. No, it hadn’t been for. The golem had said fore! Nautical directions! In the Gyr Abanian mountains?  
“Star!” the golem called, re-engaging with Chris as the woman recovered and charged in once more.  
“Get out of the way” C’loren shouted across the arena to Rororiku, who had managed to assemble his rapier and the crystal he carried into some kind of staff. Visibly confused, the Lalafell moved out of the way just in time, the attack nearly knocking the hat from his head as it blew past.  
The fight soon degenerated into a storm of shouting — “port!” — and confusion — “no, your other port!” — as it became abundantly obvious that neither Chris nor Rororiku knew the first thing about nautical terms.  
“Is it your left or my left?” Chris shouted past the golem, so distracted that she barely managed to block the next attack in time.  
“It’s your left!” Rororiku called, but before Danelle could correct him, C’loren shouted out, his voice nearly hoarse from all the yelling.  
“For gods’ sake, it’s the golem’s left! Pay attention!” One hand pointing his gun in the general direction of the golem and the other gripped tightly in his hair, C’loren seemed about at his wit’s end.  
The golem abruptly spun, one arm pointed to each corner of the arena. What was it doing now? Her aetherflow reserves were nearly empty. They had to end this soon, otherwise the ending would not be in their favor. Symbols glowed upon the stone — two suns and two moons, matched along opposite diagonals — as the golem delivered another thunderous message. “Bind night to night and day to day!”  
What did that even mean? What on earth did Monks do up here? She’d thought all they did was punch things, and something about meditating. They weren’t Astrologians, that much was certain, so what was this all about? Her vision began to blur, a white haze creeping over her peripheral vision. She looked to C’loren, who seemed as perplexed as she was, then to Rororiku, who was frowning, trying to reassemble his makeshift staff. She couldn’t tell if he had succeeded or not, as the light had filled her entire vision, and she could no longer see.  
Then, the ground bucked beneath their feet, dropping down then coming back up to meet them as they fell. She landed hard on her hands and knees, gasping as the energy seemed to drain from her body. Maia soared overhead, and she felt the faerie’s regenerative powers strengthening her, too slowly. For a moment her vision was clear, then the haze was back. Dark this time, rather than light. She didn’t know what to do. None of them did.  
She heard Rororiku screaming as the darkness overtook her. The ground dropped, then it was still. She became aware that her eyes were clenched tight, and opened them. The golem stood askew, frozen in mid-attack. Jammed into a swivel joint in the stone construction was a rapier, Rororiku dangling from the end of it, both hands clenched tight around the hilt of the sword.  
Chris was the first to reach him, lifting him and setting him down gently on the ground, where he immediately sat down. Danelle knew the feeling. Despite Maia’s attention, her limbs felt as weak as baby coeurl taking its very first steps. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.  
“Are you okay?” C’loren said quietly, so the others couldn’t hear.  
“No,” she replied honestly. “Are you?”  
“I’ve had worse. Nothing quite so unsettling, mind. But worse.” He took a breath, then continued. “We’re alive. As far as I’m concerned, that’s what matters.”  
She nodded, summoning what remained of her strength to get back on her feet, careful not to move too quickly. The effects of whatever had hit them appeared to be temporary, but she was still a long ways away from regaining her full composure. A moment later, C’loren joined her, and together they started towards to the others. Rororiku was still sitting on the ground, but Chris had turned her attention to the Lalafell’s rapier, still embedded in the golem. As they approached, the other woman grasped the blade with both hands and made to pull it out.  
“No!” C’loren yelled, having comprehended the situation more quickly than Danelle’s own mind had.  
“What?” Chris turned, the freed rapier held before her.  
“Gods, are you trying to kill us all?” C’loren’s hand was buried in his hair again, clenched around the roots so tightly that she was sure at least some of it must be coming out. His ears — tucked back against the sides of his head as far as they could go — betrayed his true emotions, which were far more on edge than his words made it sound, she realized. And if he was afraid, it was for good reason. They wouldn’t survive another round against that golem.  
“No?” Chris said, her tone one of innocent confusion. “I just thought, you know, he’ll need it. Can’t leave it stuck in a statue, can we?”  
Danelle opened her mouth to explain exactly what was wrong with that line of reasoning, but out of the corner of her eye a shimmering light drew her attention. She turned her head as Maia alighted on her shoulder, letting the serene glow of the faerie’s inner light wash over her, carrying her irritation away. This was neither the time nor the place for an argument. They were here to complete their mission and get out, without any casualties if at all possible. And that meant not lingering by dormant Temple guardians for any longer than absolutely necessary.  
She re-focused her attention on the group just in time to catch the end of Chris’s apology. “—didn’t think, I’m sorry. I’ll be more careful.”  
“Thank you,” C’loren said, as the rapier was safely returned to its owner. “We shouldn’t linger here.”  
“I agree,” Danelle said, stepping past the group. Before them, the upper gate now lay open, revealing the Temple itself. A pointed archway, at least twice as tall as the largest Roegadyn, opened into the darkness within. Inside that temple was what they had come so far, and fought so hard, to find. They were so close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Action scenes are something I need improvement on. Hopefully I'll get plenty of practice with this project!
> 
> Feel free to play a game of "count the bad df group tropes." I intentionally included 4.
> 
> Side note: at one point during the writing of this chapter, I needed a reference picture. So, I went to google, and I typed in, "ffxiv temple of the fish." I am now moderately inspired to create an aquarium shrine in my player housing.


	5. The Temple of the Fist

Their footsteps echoed through the Temple’s cavernous hall, eerie in the absolute silence. No sound from outside penetrated the thick stone walls, which also blocked the sun’s warmth, leaving only a deep chill that seemed to sink into their very bones. He regretted wearing only a light summer jacket, wishing he had something closer to Danelle’s Ishgardian-inspired lined coat. There were no torches or other lights in the Temple, nor any apparent place for anything like that to be affixed. They’d lit their own torches at the entrance, Rororiku carrying one as he accompanied Chris at the head of the party, and C’loren himself carrying the other, in the back.  
His right shoulder ached. Between firing his gun, falling down, and just general fatigue over the course of their long hike, the still-healing limb wasn’t doing so great. Not that the chirurgeon hadn’t done a great job. He’d healed the deep injury, turning a months-long recovery into that of a few mere weeks. If he’d had access to that level of treatment in past years, well, everything would have turned out differently, wouldn’t it? He was broken out of the train of thought by a sudden, harsh noise from ahead, almost like the muffled screech of an angry galago. His gun was in his hand, one leg braced back in preparation for the recoil, when Rororiku spoke.  
“Sorry,” he said, sniffling. “It’s quite dusty in here, not to mention the smoke.”  
Gods. It had only been the Lalafell. How could someone so tiny make such an alarming noise?  
Chris stifled a laugh. “Well, if there’s anything still alive in here, and they didn’t already know they were coming, they sure do now.”  
“I can’t help being a loud sneezer!” Rororiku responded, his torch bobbing to punctuate the indignant statement. “It runs in the family.”  
“Got some aldgoat ancestry?” This time Chris failed to stifle the snort that accompanied her banter, earning an annoyed grumble from down near her left knee.  
“I was actually thinking galago,” C’loren supplied, replacing his gun in its holster for the time being.  
“What’s a galago?” Chris looked back over her shoulder, curiosity burning behind her dark eyes.”  
“It’s a beastkin,” he explained. “A type of opo-opo, lives in La Noscea. It makes this really distinct noise if someone bothers it. If you’ve heard it once, you’ll never forget it.”  
“How does it go?” Danelle spoke up, glancing back as well.  
“I think you know how it goes,” he said. “A woman of the guild like you, I can’t imagine you haven’t heard it.”  
“I study a lot,” she said, expression deadpan. “I believe I must have somehow forgotten, or confused it for the call of some other exotic beastkin. We do encounter quite a variety at the port inspections.”  
Was it a trick of the dim light, or had there been just a hint of a mocking smile? There, at the corner of her mouth! Damn that Elezen, she’d backed him right into a corner, and she knew it too. He sighed heavily, playing up the dramatics.  
“Fine. I wouldn’t do this for just anybody, you know.” He took a deep breath, tightened his vocal chords, then performed his best impression of the short, brash screech of the galago. The results were more or less as he’d expected. Chris doubled over, slapping a hand against her armored knee to punctuate her amusement. Despite obvious efforts to keep a straight face, Rororiku chuckled, shaking his head. Even Danelle cracked a smile, though she attempted to disguise it by raising the side of her curled hand to her mouth. He cleared his throat. “I’m never doing that again. You heard it once, that’s all you get.”  
“And it was glorious,” Chris said. “Thank you for the performance.”  
“I’m glad it was entertaining,” he replied, keeping his expression neutral even as he internally cringed at her word choice. Performance. He didn’t do performances. That had been an informative impression, not a performance. His tail swished behind and around his legs as he motioned forward with the torch. “Let’s keep moving.”  
As they descended further into the Temple, the air grew colder. He was shivering now, the occasional spasms thankfully hidden by the flickering torchlight. The path they followed was wide, but deep chasms lay to either side, the only safeguard a low stone wall no higher than his knees. He paused for a moment, holding his torch out to peer down into the chasm, but saw nothing below but a pale purple mist, nearly out of the range of the light cast by his torch. It was one of the eeriest sights he’d ever seen, and that was saying something given the number of misty mornings he’d spent out on the Rhotano Sea.  
Suddenly, a hand pressed against the center of his back, directly between his shoulder blades. Panic squeezed his chest as his heart thudded once, but there was no time for a second beat. No time to turn, to defend at all. This was it. But no push came. Instead, a gentle warmth spread through his body, reaching even the very tips of his ears and tail. After a moment, the hand dropped and only then did he turn, looking up into Danelle’s eyes, impenetrable as always. Of course she’d noticed. But gods, didn’t she know not to sneak up on a man like that when he’s standing at the edge of a chasm?  
Not trusting his voice, not after that scare, he merely nodded his thanks. She returned the nod, arms wrapped tightly around herself, then motioned with her head towards the others, who had continued on while the two of them had stopped. They’d gotten quite far ahead, actually. How long had he been staring down into the darkness? He followed her, able to match the quick pace she set now that the cold had been pushed from his limbs.

\- - -

How much further could these tunnels go? Chris’s breath puffed in front of her, an effect normally only seen on the coldest nights of winter, when the days were short and the deserts of Thanalan grew cold in the lack of sunlight. A purple mist eddied around her ankles as she walked, the rhythmic clank of her armor the only defense against the pervasive silence of the Temple. She imagined she could hear wordless whispers in the distance, as if long-dead Monks still walked these halls.  
“Are we quite certain this place has an end?” Rororiku asked, echoing her own thoughts, planting both feet still on the floor as he waited for an answer. Chris stopped walking as well, wary to leave the torchlight.  
“It has to end at some point,” C’loren replied. Danelle stood silent beside him, both arms tucked around herself in a hug, shivering in the chill. Chris was surprised she hadn’t had a smart comment. The cold must be getting to her, though she couldn’t see how. That coat looked warm enough.  
“We didn’t bring enough supplies to make camp down here,” Rororiku continued. “Not in this cold. What if these tunnels go on for days? What will we do then?”  
“I don’t know,” C’loren said, his tail sweeping from one side to the other, a note of irritation even entering his voice. “Do you want to go back? Fight that thing again, and a third time on the way back in?”  
“No,” Rororiku admitted. “But I don’t want to freeze down here, either!”  
“Neither do I. That’s why we need to keep moving.”  
“And the lights,” Danelle spoke, her voice unusually breathless.  
“Lights?” C’loren asked, frowning in confusion, but Chris saw them even before Danelle turned to point them out. Far behind them, a faint blue light shone. A light that hadn’t been there before. A light that looked as cold as the air felt, as if it would suck all the warmth out of you if you got too close. Even as she watched, the light suddenly grew in intensity, as if another beacon had been lit. There was no going back now.  
“Uh, there’s another problem,” Rororiku said, his voice trembling. Looking down, Chris saw the mist had gotten higher. Much higher. Now it was halfway up her calves, and threatening to swallow the Lalafell right up. She knelt, offering her back to Rororiku, who clambered on.  
“Don’t set my hair on fire,” she cautioned, securing her grip on him before she straightened once more. It wasn’t a bother to carry him like this, he was hardly heavy at all. And she’d feel better if he wasn’t breathing in that mist. Who knew what it was, or what it would do to him. To any of them.  
As they resumed walking, moving double-time in response to the approaching light, the whispers seemed to grow louder, if no more comprehensible. It was as if a horde of the dead were coming, up from the chasm and from behind in the light, an inevitable collision trapping the four of them in the middle.  
“Please tell me I’m not the only one who can hear that,” C’loren said, his voice cracking as he spoke.  
“No,” came Danelle’s one-word response, relief washing over Chris at the confirmation.  
“I thought I was going mad,” she confessed. “I’ve been hearing it for a while. Like there’s something out there, something, I don’t know—”  
“—coming for us,” Rororiku finished her sentence, and she nodded.  
“Yes, exactly. That’s exactly what it feels like. It’s coming, and it’s never going to stop, not until we’re, I don’t know. Dead, or something. Even then it might not stop. I don’t think it’d care.”  
“You’re rambling,” C’loren pointed out. “Try to stay calm. It hasn’t caught up yet, whatever it is. Until it does, we’ve got time.”  
“How am I supposed to st—stay calm?” she stammered as her teeth chattered, whether from cold, nerves, or a combination of the two she couldn’t tell.  
“Did I ever tell you about the time I witnessed a Roegadyn’s foulest fart save the life of one of Ul’Dah’s wealthiest merchants?”  
She looked over to him, trying to tell if he was being serious. Naturally, it was impossible to tell. “Of course you haven’t, I’ve only just met you six days ago. I’d remember if you’d told that particular story.”  
“Excellent. So, it was some years back,” he launched directly into the story, his tone light, but a tension that betrayed his true emotions lurked beneath the surface of his words. She’d spent enough time with him to know that he was every bit as scared as she was. “I was working with a partner, a Roe by the name of Ghoktrynes. We were a merchant’s guard, providing assurance that a business deal would go as planned, you know the sort of thing. We were working for a an ore dealer, who wanted to sell their wares in Ul’Dah, which meant setting up an arrangement with a city trader. I’m sure you all know the reputation of Ul’Dahn merchants. Unfortunately, it’s well-earned.”  
It was. Most traders were already viciously cutthroat, and the ones that rose to the top were the worst of the worst.  
“Anyway,” he continued, “we get to the meeting spot, just a bit south of Wineport, and much to our surprise he’s just the nicest Lalafell you’ve ever met. Backed by two Highlander bruisers, of course, but that just means he’s not stupid. And before they start talking business, he says there’s no point in negotiating on an empty stomach. And he brings out a banquet fit for a king, meat and cheese and more kinds of bread than I can name. He lets us eat it too, says we won’t have enough strength to guard anyone if we’re standing around hungry. Anyway, point is, he also happened to bring along enough good beer to keep an army drunk for a week. Naturally, old Rains drank most of it all by himself.” He laughed, but only briefly, the overpowering dread of the tunnels suppressing the emotion.  
“So, now it’s the next day. We wake up nice and early, and they’re about to go to the table to talk this deal out. There’s only one problem. I don’t know if you know about Roes and beer, but let me tell you, it’s like letting an auroch get in the wheat while it’s still green. Except about ten times worse. So, I won’t sit next to him. The guy who’s paying us won’t sit next to him. The merchant from Ul’Dah? His own guards? You guessed it, nobody wants to sit next to the poor bastard. So, there’s only one thing to do. We send him outside the tent to guard the door.”  
Glancing down as she walked, she saw that the mist had risen past her knees. She took a deep breath, focusing once more on C’loren’s story in an attempt to stall her own panic.  
“Now, we can hear him out there. A Roe in that kind of distress isn’t quiet, if you get my meaning. So every so often, we’d be hearing him out there, getting on with what he has to do. And we’re inside, trying our best to ignore it, and mostly just glad we can’t smell it. Things are going well, at least from what I can tell, not knowing much about trade myself. Then, out of nowhere, there’s an almighty crash from outside! So I jump up, grab my axe—”  
“Your axe?” Chris interrupted, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. Even without turning around, she could see the cold blue glow lighting him from behind. It was catching them up far faster than they were walking. “What happened to your gun?”  
“This was before that,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “Anyway, so I run outside, and by the gods it reeks. But what do I see, but a little Lalafell lying on the ground beneath a tree, cloaked head to toe, and knocked clean out. He’s got a blowdart too, one of those nasty ones the desert tribes use. If you get hit by one of those, you won’t die clean and you won’t die quick. One thing’s for certain though, sure as the tide, you’re not gonna survive it. So, the Ul’Dahn merchant comes running out, and it turns out he knows the assassin. Or who he was working for, at any rate. Seems it was one of those big plots they’re always getting up to, down in Ul’Dah. Some other company had it out for him, caught wind of the business deal, and sent the Lalafell all the way out to La Noscea to do the deed.  
“But you’re wondering what happened. How was the plot foiled? What does all this have to do with dear old Rains? Well, we figure our would-be assassin had himself a nice vantage point, hidden up a tree, long before we even arrived. The Ul’Dahn merchant was the only Lalafell at the meeting, so all he had to do was wait for a clean shot through the tent, aiming for the only small silhouette. It was a fair plan, and probably would have worked too, except when Rains went outside he just so happened to go stand right beneath that very tree. And so, overcome by stench, the Lalafell passed clean out, toppled from the tree, and our merchant friend lived to trade another day. All thanks a Roegadyn’s farts.”  
“That never happened,” Chris said, smiling despite herself. The situation may have been dire — the mist had risen to her waist, and C’loren had been pitching his voice to speak over the whispers for some time now — but the thought of a Lalafell assassin tumbling out a tree like that was perfectly hilarious. Too hilarious to be true, surely.  
“I swear it did, just as I said. Gods strike me down where I stand if I’m lying.”  
“You don’t think he’s telling the truth, do you?” Chris looked back — bloody hells, blue flames lined the edges of the path not twenty yalms behind them — past him to Danelle, who blinked in confusion, seeming jarred out of her thoughts. The faerie fluttered behind her head, its serenity out of place amid the current danger.  
“What?”  
“Nevermind,” Chris said. “It’s not important.”  
“Speaking of important!” Rororiku piped up, tightening his grip around Chris’s shoulders. “We seem to have come to the end!”

\- - -

The path sloped sharply down before them, descending to a square platform that dropped straight off, with no protective barrier at its edge, into another deep chasm. The mist parted at the end of the walkway, spilling over both sides rather than creeping over the platform’s surface. C’loren wasn’t sure whether to be glad or unnerved by that. There was no sign of the Warrior of Light, but the remains of a campfire indicated that somebody had stopped here recently. Their hurried footsteps rang against the stone as they crossed over to the platform, coming to a stop as there was nowhere left to go.  
“We’ve come all this way and she’s not even bloody here,” Chris said, kicking the toe of her steel boot into one of the ornate carvings that covered the floor. “Damned whispers haven’t stopped either. And something stinks.”  
She was right, about the whispers at least. If anything, they’d gotten louder. He didn’t smell anything out of the ordinary, however. C’loren spared a glance for Danelle — present, but staring off into the distance, as if she was having trouble focusing on the present situation — before shaking his head. “I’m going to check out the campsite. Maybe the Warrior of Light left something, some clue.”  
“Or a way out,” Chris said, her tone dark as she voiced the thought at the front of everyone’s mind. C’loren shrugged, striding across the platform towards the campfire. He crouched down, holding the torch above the remains. He didn’t even know what he was looking for. Just something, anything, that might get them out of this.  
“Let me down,” he heard Rororiku say. “And hold this. I’m going to go help him.” A few moments later, the Lalafell bent down across from him, peering down at the mess. Unsheathing his rapier, Rororiku used the blade to poke apart the charred logs and other debris, not paying any mind to the layer of soot that smeared across the blade. It was no good, there was nothing here. Wait, there!  
“Move that bit of log again,” C’loren said, indicating with his finger.  
“That one there?”  
“Yeah. What’s that?” he held the torch closer, illuminating what lay beneath the wood.  
“Looks like a bit of parchment, perhaps? Must have not burnt entirely before the fire was doused. Let me see if—” The torch went out, interrupting Rororiku’s words as they were plunged into blue-tinged darkness. Chris’s cry of alarm from behind told C’loren that the other torch had similarly gone out. A moment later, blue flames materialized in the braziers at each corner of the platform, blazing without warmth as they cast their cold light across the large chamber. As he stood, the whispers built to a crescendo, then, as he stood and turned, suddenly ceased.  
A ghostly figure stood at the end of the path, blocking their retreat. He was tall, a Highlander by the looks of him, though he was broad enough to be mistaken at first glance for a Rodgadyn. His hair threatened to spill from the band that held it back, and his long, curled beard would have been the envy of many a ship captain, back home. His face was noble, his expression serious as he spoke, a voice that echoed through the chamber.  
“You have passed the trials of the Temple of the Fist. Only one remains. It is I, Ivon Coeurlfist. Are you prepared to face me in combat?”  
C’loren looked to the women, who were standing to the side. Danelle still seemed to be having trouble focusing, even her faerie curled in on itself on her shoulder, and Chris was shaking her head, seemingly unable to speak. They couldn’t take him on, not in this state. There was only one way out. A gamble, sure, but he’d won weaker odds. And it wasn’t as if they had a better option.  
“No,” C’loren called out, striding across the platform towards the ghost. Spirit. Whatever he was.  
“No?” Ivon repeated, a frown creasing his brow. “You have come all this way, but you do not wish to face your final trial?”  
“No, we don’t.” C’loren stopped a few yalms away, closer than any of the others but not too close. He clenched his hands behind his back so the spirit wouldn’t see them tremble. An old trick.  
“Why, then, have you come to the Temple of the Fist, if you do not wish to fight?” He sounded confused rather than angry. C’loren’s eyelids fluttered as he breathed out slowly, relief filling him as his held breath dissipated. This might just work.  
“We’ve come looking for someone,” he explained. “The Warrior of Light. We were told they were here, and that’s why we came to your Temple.”  
Ivon Coeurlfist regarded him for a long moment, eyes blazing blue, before he spoke again. “The Warrior of Light is no longer here, nor should you be. Begone!”  
He opened his mouth to protest, but as Ivon raised his arms a blinding blue light — so bright as to seem a searing white, though somehow he knew it was the same light that filled the spirit’s eyes — filled the room. C’loren’s head spun and he felt as if he was falling, impossibly far. There was no sound, no touch of wind on his face, only the sensation of an infinite drop. And then it was over.  
He felt solid earth beneath his back and the distant chitter of vilekin filled his ears. He opened his eyes, and found himself staring up at the stars. He breathed in, tasting the scent of distant fires, then out, feeling the stress of their last confrontation leaving along with the air. They were alive. He didn’t even care where they were, they were above the ground, and they were alive. The hard metal fittings of his firearm was digging into his shoulder blade. He sat up, alleviating the pressure, and looked around.  
They lay at the foot of the path up to the Temple of the Fist. Danelle lay next to him, crumpled on the ground, the faerie she’d manifested nowhere to be seen. He could see the others a little further away, but he was more concerned for the Elezen. He crawled over on hands and knees, ignoring the stinging of his wounds, and held the back of his hand to her face. She was breathing, but so cold. Whatever spell she had cast in the Temple, it must have drawn on her own warmth. She shouldn’t have done that. Her eyelids fluttered open and they locked eyes.  
“What happened?” she asked, her voice weak and confused.  
“Ivon threw us out,” he said. “Are you okay?”  
“I will be.” She shivered, trying to sit up. He helped her up to lean back against the stone wall of the tunnel behind them. “So cold,” she said, and he agreed. Her fingers were like ice, through her gloves. “The spell. I made it up, just then. It was too strong.”  
It wasn’t terribly cold out here, certainly not compared to how it had been inside the Temple. If warmth was all she needed, she was right. She’d recover. He could still feel the warmth she’d given him, running through his veins. If only he could give it back. He settled against the wall beside her, and she leaned against him, eyes closed again. He was no Arcanist, so that would have to do. The others were awake as well. Neither appeared harmed, though C’loren couldn’t hear their hushed conversation from where he sat.  
“It was all for nothing,” Danelle said. “He was already gone.”  
Yeah. He didn’t have a response to that, nor did she seem to expect one. They were back where they started, shaken and worn down from their efforts, and had no leads. He hadn’t expected it to be easy, but it was hard not to be discouraged. He closed his eyes, letting his head rest against the wall behind him, his mind empty as he rested. Moments — or perhaps minutes, given his exhausted state — later, he heard someone approach, and opened his eyes.  
“C’loren,” Rororiko said, offering him a nod. “Chris thought — we both thought — you should see this. You might know what it means.”  
He extended his hand, a scrap of charred parchment on his palm. The scrap from the campfire remains. He must have grabbed it before they were banished! Too tired to ask any questions, C’loren held out his hand and accepted the parchment, careful not to damage the fragile edges. Yes, this was familiar. It was a long shot, but maybe they still had a chance after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the farting Roegadyn. C'loren has no sense of how to tell stories in polite company. Or perhaps that was the entire point.
> 
> If soundtracks are your thing, you can't go wrong turning on the music of whatever area the story is currently set in. That's what I usually default to, when writing it. For most of this chapter, I had "Answers - Reprise" from the FFXIV soundtrack on, turned down low enough that I would only occasionally hear a spooky voice rising out of silence. It especially fits during the moments C'loren and Danelle have together, I think.


	6. M'treya's Desire

“I want to do it, though!” Chris frowned, crossing her arms over the chest of her tunic. The day was hot, and there was little use for her armor in the safety of the camp, apart from baking her alive. So, she’d swapped her boots for sandals, and was thoroughly enjoying the freedom that came from not having an entire suit of metal plates strapped to her body. The climate here was cooler than back home in Thanalan, especially at night, but even so it was perfect for bare arms, especially when a nice breeze was blowing. She’d left the suit of armor with their other stuff, under Rororiku’s watchful eyes, while the rest of the group followed up on their only lead.  
“We’ve been over this,” C’loren said, taking the parchment scrap back from Chris. “I should be the one to talk to her. We had dealings before, the last time I was in Rhalgr’s Reach. She spent a while on the sale, so I’m sure she’ll remember me.”  
Frowning, Chris looked over to the shopkeeper in question. She was Miqo’te, short, with hair the color of honey bobbed just beneath a delicate chin. While her features were petite, sharp brown eyes showed her intelligence, one well-tempered with a sense of humor. This was no naive, giggly shop girl. Despite — or maybe because of — that, she was still very possibly the most adorable Seeker Chris had ever seen. Which came back around to the C’loren situation. Did he seriously think she’d be fool enough to fall for that line about them having some prior connection? Utter shite, that was. She wasn’t backing down on this.  
“Nuh-uh,” Chris said. “I stopped that statue from clobbering your face off up that mountain, remember?”  
“I think that was Rororiku more than me,” he responded, ear twitching in confusion. “What does that have to do with anything, though?”  
What did that have to do with anything? She wasn’t even sure, so she doubled down, tightening her crossed arms as she stared him down, eyes narrowed. He looked back, amber eyes wide in a perfect picture of innocent confusion. Yeah, she wasn’t buying that.  
“I agree with C’loren,” Danelle said, suddenly. She’d been even quieter than usual ever since what had happened in the Temple the previous night, and given her usual temperament that was saying something. But that was no excuse to side with C’loren on this! A hundred protests ran through Chris’s head, but only one word managed to make its way out her mouth.  
“Why?”  
“Merchants operate on trust and association. Given the state of our investigation we should secure any advantage we can.” She paused for a moment, an expression of sympathy crossing her face. “I’m sorry.”  
“Yeah, well, you’re probably right.” The Elezen bloody well was right, didn’t mean Chris wanted to hear it. Two against one, though, and Rororiku nowhere near to jump to her defense. She’d have to back down on this. As C’loren headed towards the stall, she looked away, unwilling to watch the transaction. She was sure he’d be all smiles, and sure, she’d be coy at first, but if that signature — all loops, with a flourish in the shape of a heart — was anything to go off, she wouldn’t stay shy forever. A handsome Miqo’te like C’loren could get a girl like her anytime he wanted. It just seemed greedy, was all. It wasn’t fair.  
Lost in her own thoughts, she hadn’t been paying attention to what was happening at the stall behind her. At least, not until an angry shout cut through the air. “I never want to see you back here again! Get away from my shop!” She turned, just in time to see C’loren scurrying away from the stall. The shopkeeper, teeth bared, wound her arm back and threw something after him. It hit him on the left shoulder, bouncing away as he clutched the spot, grimacing. Looking for the spot where it had landed, Chris poked through some scraggly weeds until she found a tiny — but deceptively heavy — goldsmith’s hammer. Well, then.  
“I thought you said you had rapport?” Danelle was saying, as Chris returned to the group.  
“We did! At least, I thought we did!” C’loren was wide-eyed with confusion, ears quivering as if he anticipated more objects being tossed his way. “I have no idea what she’s so upset about, honest!”  
“Did you sleep with her?” Chris asked bluntly, the small hammer swinging idly between her fingers as she stared him down.  
“What? No!” he said, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t—she’s not my type, okay? That’s not what happened!”  
“Then what did happen?” Chris said, raising an eyebrow.  
“I told you, I don’t know. I bought something from her before, an amulet, and she was all sunshine and smiles. The I walk over there just now, and suddenly she’s furious! She said I had some nerve coming back, then she started yelling, and—and throwing things!” He rubbed his shoulder again as he recalled what had happened. “I wish I knew what I did, but I honestly have no idea. You have to believe me.”  
“All right,” Danelle said, taking a deep breath. “New plan. Chris goes and talks to her, and finds out what her dealing with the Warrior of Light was.”  
“And why she attacked me,” C’loren added, frowning as Danelle gave him a stern look. “No, don’t look at me like that. I have a right to know what it was I even did! Her name’s M’treya, by the way.”  
A few minutes ago, Chris would have been bursting with joy at the thought of getting to be the one to go talk to the Miqo’te, but now she was hesitant. The throwing things was troubling. She barely knew C’loren, but she couldn’t help but feel a responsibility to keep him safe, even from such mundane things as tools hurled by angry shopkeepers. Also, her shield was back with the chocobos, so if trouble did start, she’d be defenseless. Despite the seriousness of the moment, she couldn’t help but smile a little at that thought. Why was she acting as if the tiny little Miqo’te was about to pull a pair of hora out of her apron pocket and start throwing punches? Maybe she’d just mistaken C’loren for somebody else, somebody who’d done some horrible act that deserved getting pelted with crafting tools.  
“Sure,” she said. “I’ll figure out what’s going on, and what she knows. I’ll get to the bottom of it, don’t worry.” She turned, gripping the hammer tight so she wouldn’t drop it, muttering under her breath. “Should have just let me do it in the first place.” Looking up, her eyes met M’treya’s, and she nearly stopped in her tracks at the force of the burning hatred she saw within. Gods! What had this girl so worked up?  
Taking a deep breath for strength, she approached the table. Stopping just inside of an arm’s length away — the thought of the potential hora still lurking in her mind, silly as it was — she set the hammer down upon the counter with a quiet clunk. She had barely removed her hand when M’treya snatched it up, clutching it to her chest with both hands, eyes narrowed as she glared at Chris.  
“So is it you, or the other one?” she hissed, her words harsh and acidic rather in place of her previous cheerful demeanor.  
“I—what?” Words failed Chris as she failed to understand what M’treya was talking about.  
“I guess neither of you are the right color, anyway. Your hair,” she clarified, just as Chris opened her mouth to protest. “It’s dark brown, her’s too. So it’s someone else. I should’ve known someone like him would be walking around with at least three of you all hanging off his arms.”  
“What?” Chris repeated, starting to get an inkling of what might be going on here, though not much of one. And certainly not a useful one. “Okay, first of all, nobody’s hanging off anybody’s arms. At least, not that I know of. Secondly, I have no idea what in all the bloody hells you’re on about, so why don’t you start from the beginning?”  
“You really don’t, do you?” Her demeanor relaxed slightly, but only just, and she put the hammer down, giving a single nod. “Alright, then. I’ll tell you.”

\- - -

C’loren watched anxiously as the two women spoke at the stall. His tail swished absently from side to side, in rhythm with his fingers as he twisted his jacket’s lacing between them. At least M’treya had put down the hammer. The throwing things had not been okay. His shoulder still smarted, a little. Who knew a tiny little girl like that could have such a strong arm? Eventually, he saw Chris nod and step away, walking back towards them.  
“I think you just lost an ally,” Danelle observed, leaning down close to C’loren’s ear to speak. And she was right. Chris’s expression wasn’t pleased at all. What had he even done?  
“You oblivious oaf,” Chris started in on him as soon as she was within easy speaking distance. “You don’t go buying gifts for another woman without making it damned obvious that’s what you’re doing! You don’t lead a girl on, then drop her fast as a piping hot popoto once you’ve got what you want, and then go trotting off to give your gift to someone else!”  
Again with this other woman business! But wait, the gift — oh, no. His eyes widened, ears pulling back as realization dawned on him. That was what this was all about. It had only been weeks ago, but with all that had happened, it felt like years. Emotions washed over him — embarrassment, regret, and, now, guilt — as he covered his face with his hand, shaking his head. Gods. He’d had no idea.  
“Looks like you’ve got an explanation. Good. I’d love to hear it.”  
He looked up. Chris stood in front of him, arms folded as she looked down at him as if he was a misbehaving kitten, rather than a full-grown man a few years her senior. He did need to explain. “I’m not sure where to start,” he began, but she spoke before he could continue.  
“I’ll start you off. You were in Rhalgr’s Reach, just before the big push east. You go to the market to buy a gift. An amulet, and not for a mother or a sister. I’m no expert, but I believe her when she says people shop different when they’re buying for a lover. Now, you go on and tell me where you went wrong, and Gods help you if you leave anything out.”  
“Right,” he said. “That’s all true. Well, not entirely. We weren’t lovers. I thought we might be, but—” he shut his mouth, aware he was starting to ramble, and shook his head. “That’s not important. It’s how you said, I went to the market to make a purchase. To buy a gift. For a—for a friend.”  
“Why did you go to her stall?” Chris interrupted, shoving her question in as C’loren paused for breath. He closed his eyes, remembering walking into the market, the air abuzz with the sounds of multiple armies making their preparations to move out. It was the way the sunlight had glimmered off her hair that day, not so very long ago, that had drawn his eye. Her hair was a deeper shade of blond than most, and it seemed to possess an inner light, like a finely cut gem. He’d only seen that exact shade of hair on one other person. He’d taken it as a lucky sign, and that was why he’d approached her stall out of the several competing merchants.  
“She reminded me of someone else,” he said finally, condensing all the feelings into one sentence. “I thought if I could see what it looked like, using her as a reference, I’d be able to pick the best one.”  
“She thought you were buying for her,” Chris said, and he nodded. He hadn’t realized it at the time, lost in his own desires, but looking back it was obvious what had happened.  
“I had no idea,” he said, and meant it. “If I’d known—”  
“I believe you,” she replied. “If I’d thought you’d done this on purpose, believe me, we’d be having a different conversation right now. It doesn’t matter though. You still need to go apologize to her.”  
“I know,” he said, his stomach dropping at the thought of going over there again. It was the right thing to do, but what would stop her from going off at him again? Maybe if he got some parchment and wrote it out, somebody could deliver it for him? No, that was the coward’s way out.  
“You can hide behind me, if you want,” Chris offered, as if she could read his mind. That was nice of her to offer, but no, it wasn’t necessary. He had to face this head-on. For once.  
He shook his head, but added, “It would be nice if you were nearby, just in case.”  
“I’ll be right behind you.”  
“Wait,” Danelle spoke up, turning her piercing gaze to Chris. “What did you find out about the Warrior of Light?”  
“The who now?” Chris frowned, seeming confused by the question, but after a moment it dawned on her. “Oh! No, sorry, I didn’t ask about that.”  
“That was the entire point of you going over there,” Danelle said, her tone diplomatic and neutral, though the tight set of her jaw betrayed a deep irritation.  
“I know, I know! This was just really important to sort out. We’ll ask right after, I promise.”  
C’loren stepped around the tall Highlander, swallowing hard as he saw the stony look in M’treya’s eyes. Fighting the instinct to run and never ever return to Rhalgr’s Reach — a strategy that had served him remarkably well in the past, as recently as the battle for Ala Mhigo in fact — he forced himself to take one step after another, moving closer to the market stall. He heard both women fall into step behind him, Chris’s heavy footfalls out of rhythm with Danelle’s faster, lighter strides. He was surprised that Danelle was coming along, though perhaps he shouldn’t be. From what he knew of her, she likely thought they’d never get around to asking the important questions if she wasn’t keeping an eye on things. She was probably right.  
“Got something to say to me?” M’treya said as he came within speaking distance of the counter.  
“Yes,” he said, resting both hands on the smooth wooden surface. “I’m sorry for leading you on. I assure you, it was completely accidental. I was—” he hesitated, not sure how to explain it. Normally he would have noticed something like that, but at the time his thoughts had been full of someone else. Someone with honey-gold hair, beautiful hands, and a laugh that could melt the highest snows of Coerthas. His thoughts had been so full that he had been oblivious to everything else. Blind. “Blinded,” he eventually finished. “Couldn’t see what was happening right in front of me. That wasn’t fair to you, and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”  
“Huh,” she said, the aggression melting from her face. “I didn’t expect you to actually apologize and sound like you meant it. I mean, it’s not all right, but I guess you didn’t mean it, and, I dunno.” She looked down for a moment, then back up to him. “Did she like it, at least?”  
He closed his eyes, wincing a little as the question hit much closer to home than he’d been expecting. Memories bubbled up. Shouting. Furious accusations, all false, but every one of them as sharp as a knife as they struck home in turn. The subtle signals had all been there, at least he’d thought so, but apparently he had been wrong. Horribly wrong. It seemed that he’d been blind to more than just the attentions of a shopkeeper.  
“No,” he said, finally. “He didn’t like it.”  
“Oh,” she said, shocked into an awkward silence. Yeah. That’s about how it usually went.  
Behind him, Danelle cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, I know this isn’t the time.” She was right. It really wasn’t. “But the reason we came to speak to you in the first place is because we believe you can help us.”  
“Help you? With what?” M’treya asked, her eyes wary as they shifted behind C’loren’s shoulder to fix on the woman standing behind him.  
“We have reason to believe you recently had dealings with a certain individual. The Warrior of Light.” As Danelle spoke, M’treya’s ears perked up. So it was true. Still beset by memories he’d rather not be reliving at the moment, C’loren resigned himself to letting Danelle handle the situation for now. “We’re trying to find them. I understand you may have only spoken to them briefly, but any information you could give us that might direct our search would be appreciated.”  
“I don’t know,” M’treya said, looking down to the counter where her finger was tracing a circle, around and around. “When I took the trade over from Gran, she gave me lots of good advice. And one thing I remember is not to spread talk about your customers, ever. Even if you don’t think it matters any.”  
“What do you think, we’re going to write an exposé?” Danelle’s voice, usually calm, had taken on an incredulous tone.  
“No,” M’treya replied, her own voice now defensive as well, with an anxious edge. “But I don’t know any of you, okay? I guess except for him, and I’ll be honest, that doesn’t say a lot for the rest of you. I know he didn’t mean it and all, but I’m still a little hurt, even though I know it was just a misunderstanding, okay? But I don’t know you, you could be anybody!”  
C’loren shut his eyes, taking in a deep breath. This wasn’t going how he’d hoped. Danelle was acting like she was still back in Limsa Lominsa, where a Guild writ could buy the confidence of anyone up or down Hawker’s Alley. That wasn’t how this situation would be won. He took all the unpleasant memories that had emerged — the angry final words, the long and awkward march east, and the look of confusion on that peasant woman’s face as he’d shoved the glimmering amulet into her hands just to be rid of the damned thing — and pushed them back, denying them his attention for the time being. Maybe forever. If he was lucky. He opened his eyes, extending his arm to touch Danelle’s wrist lightly. The touch — barely more than a graze of fingertips — succeeded in its intended communication as she looked over to him, prevented from saying something that undoubtedly would have made the situation even worse. Danelle silenced, he turned his attention back to M’treya, who was regarding him with an uncertain frown.  
“I know we haven’t made the best impression so far,” he said, painfully aware of the tension still in his voice. Apparently, he hadn’t packed away the lingering emotions as well as he’d thought. “Is there anything we can do to convince you that you can trust us with what you know?”  
“Well,” she said, drawing out the word as she thought, “I don’t really know how to tell if you’re creeps or not—”  
“I was ready to punch him out for you,” Chris spoke up. “Before I heard the whole story. Does that count for anything?”  
That earned a startled smile. Faint, but present. M’treya dipped her head to Chris, studying her hands for a moment before looking back up to the group. “You really were. I appreciate that. All right, I guess there’s something you could do, to show you’re trustworthy. Give me a minute and I’ll explain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, I had an unfortunate character emotional mind meld last week into the weekend and it caused progress to slow down drastically, to the point of nearly stalling out. But things are sorted out and back on track now. Chapter 7 is complete as well and should go up soon.
> 
> To anyone who's read my work before, the gay invasion should come as no surprise. It's a thing that tends to happen. Assuming some flavor of LGB unless confirmed straight is usually the way to go.


	7. Seeking Sandwiches

“So,” Rororiku said, resting his finger upon his lips as he considered the latest lunatic plan the group had devised. “Explain to me again exactly why we’re going all the way back the way we just came?”  
“We need to go back toward the Peaks,” Chris explained as she fastened the straps on her armor. “Now, unless you’ve got some way to sprout wings and fly straight over the cliffs to the south, that means we’re going to need to cross back west across the Velodyna, then again heading east along the—”  
“No, no, no!” he said, shaking his head. “I understand the geography of the situation, that’s not in question. What I don’t understand, is the why!”  
“She’s homesick for her Ma’s cooking,” C’loren said, tightening the girth strap under his chocobo’s belly. He seemed distracted, and perhaps a little down, though Rororiku wasn’t sure why. “So she figures, if we can be trusted to go fetch some of it for her and bring it all the way back without stealing it and eating it ourselves, then we must be good people who couldn’t possibly use the information for evil.”  
“Don’t be like that,” Chris said, scratching at the edge of her gauntlet. “At least she’s agreed to tell us, eventually. That’s more than I thought we’d get, after you got thumped with that hammer.”  
“Say what now?” Thumped with a hammer? Eyes wide, Rororiku looked from one member of the group to the next. What manner of mess had they gone and gotten themselves into while he was busy watching their supplies?  
“There’s no time,” Danelle said, impatience written clear across her face. “I’d like to be west of the Velodyna before we make camp for the night, and that means we need to leave now.”  
“All right, all right,” Chris said, waving a hand at her. “I’m just about—there, done. Gods, I swear this armor didn’t rub so badly when I had it on yesterday.” Now fully suited up, she gave Rororiku a boost up onto the chocobo’s back before mounting up behind him. While the others finished getting their own chocobo ready for the journey, she leaned forward, speaking in his ear. “I’ll tell you on the road, when they’re not listening.”  
He nodded, watching as Danelle mounted to ride pillion behind C’loren, taking only two tries to make it up this time. Her chocobo riding skills were much improved from when they’d set off from Ala Mhigo, not that it was saying much. She clearly hadn’t spent much time on chocobo-back at all before this had all started.  
“Where is it we’re going, again?” Chris asked, tugging on her chocobo’s reins as it pranced in place, eager to be off.  
“It’s called the Peering Stones,” C’loren said. “I’ve got written directions, and a map.”  
“Good,” Rororiku said. “At least we know where we’re going. The very last thing we need right now is to get lost.”

\- - -

“How did we end up losing the bridge?” Danelle asked, pinching the bridge of her nose to ward off an oncoming headache. Daylight had faded all too soon into a blood-red sunset, before proceeding to a deepening twilight. Now, it was so dark that they could only see what little their torchlight illuminated, barely enough to ensure that they were still following the packed dirt road. “We just came this way not three days ago.”  
“There was a thing, with an eyeball,” Chris said, scratching beneath her neck guard. “It was spooking the chocobos.”  
“Pretty sure the chocobos weren’t who was being spooked,” C’loren said, hands twitching the reins back and forth. “I told you we’d get lost if we tried to cut through the hills.”  
“Yeah, well, shoot me,” Chris replied, punctuating her curt words by spurring her chocobo forward around another large pillar of striped rock.  
“Let her go,” Danelle said, touching C’loren’s elbow as he tried to urge his own bird forward. “We’ll catch her up soon enough.”  
“You’re right,” he said, exhaling in a quiet burst. “It’s just such a stupid thing to get turned around over.”  
“Fear of fopers — and their northern cousins, the deepeye — is actually one of the most common phobias among young children who grow up in an area they can be found.Conversely, there’s about an equal number who consider them to be the cutest creatures imaginable. Oddly, there isn’t much of a middle ground in terms of reaction.” For a moment, there was only silence apart from the quiet tread of chocobo feet on earth. Then, C’loren snorted, clearly failing to contain amusement. “What’s so funny?”  
“You are. Do they have you just sit there and memorize books, at the Guild?”  
“No! Well, not exactly. Only sometimes.” Gods, was she blushing? The darkness was good for one thing, at least. “I was never assigned to read a bestiary, outside of specific entries relevant to my assignments. I just enjoy them. The illustrations, especially.”  
“A bestiary? That’s where they write about all the beastkin, yeah?”  
“Not just beastkin,” she explained. “Scalekin, vilekin, cloudkin, seedkin, wavekin, all sorts. You’ll need specialized bestiaries to look up anything unusual, such as voidsent or forgekin, of course.”  
“Have you read those too?” His tone was still amused, but less so than before, tinged more with curiosity now.  
“I’m hardly a scholar in the matter,” she said. “I have looked through a few volumes however, yes.”  
“Out of curiosity, which kind of kid were you?”  
“Sorry?” she asked, not following the thread of conversation.  
“Did you know about fopers when you were a kid, or did you only read about them later, in a book?”  
“Oh, I was born in Coerthas. Deepeyes were common, along the roads, though they rarely approached our dwellings.”  
“So did you think they were cute, or scary?”  
She shuddered, the question bringing to mind horrible childhood nightmares. The one about the pantry, for instance. It was time for dinner, to set the table. Her job. But she couldn’t find the plates. And whenever she got to the last cupboard, she would open it, only to find—no, it was too much, even now. Why was such a horrifying voidsent the perfect size for hiding in kitchen cupboards? And why must it have only a single, bulging eye? But she still hadn’t answered his question.  
“I found them profoundly unsettling,” she said finally. “The feeling persists.”  
“I’d wondered why you didn’t object to the sudden detour.”  
“I should have. Gods only know where we are now. It should have been a simple detour around a single pillar, I don’t understand what happened.”  
“It’s easy to get turned around. Besides, you know what they say about shortcuts.”  
“That it’s how you end up with a carbuncle with a tail as a horn?”  
“That, um,” he twisted halfway around in the saddle, frowning back to her. “Are you joking? Is that really a thing they say, in the Guild?”  
“Yes,” she confirmed. “It’s one of the earliest lessons taught to young students, to follow the mathematics precisely and without deviation. Of course, those who have a deeper mastery of the subject can discern when a shortcut may be possible. But if there exists any uncertainty, the procedures should be followed exact—”  
A shout — Rororiku — from up ahead interrupted her words, followed by some splashing. Then, Chris called out. “We found the river! No sign of a bridge, though.”  
“Gods,” C’loren swore, urging his chocobo towards the commotion. “At this point, we might as well just fjord it. It should be shallow enough, this far north. Or we could make camp here and wait until morning to continue. We’d have better light for the crossing.”  
“I’d rather not,” she said, trying — and failing — to think of anything but the patter of tiny, waddling feet and the peering of one huge eye.  
“Ah, right,” he said. “The fopers. We’ll do our best to cross, then, if it’ll help you sleep easier. Might put Chris at ease, too.”  
“Thank you,” she said. “We should be able to find the path again tomorrow morning, with the light.”  
“Yeah,” he said. “If we don’t have any more problems.”

\- - -

“I have what in my armor?” The panicked shriek cut through their campsite, jarring Rororiku from dreams of a delicious home-cooked roast, paired with the finest wine, and finished off with a slice of—well, he hadn’t gotten to taste the pie. So he’d never find out now, would he? But, who was yelling? Peering around the tent with bleary eyes, he noticed Chris’s bedroll was empty. Was she all right? He crawled from the tent, blinking in the early morning light. They’d made camp up a short slope, against the cliff face. The dawn light came from the east, casting stark shadows of themselves and their tents against the rock wall. All last night, he’d heard a most distressing stomping and crashing in the scraggly forest above them, but nothing had ventured down this close to the river, thank the gods.  
As he looked around camp, searching for the source of the commotion, he saw C’loren standing outside the tent he’d shared with Danelle. The Miqo’te was in his small clothes — it could be worse, he supposed — and was staring at the flap with a mix of confusion and alarm on his face.  
“Did you hear what that was?” Rororiku asked, his voice still thick with sleep.  
“That was Chris,” C’loren said, unhelpfully, still watching the tent as if he expected an angry boar to burst out of it at any moment.  
“Well I knew that,” Rororiku said, walking across camp to get a better vantage point. He made sure to keep C’loren between himself and the tent; upon further thought, the comparison of an angry boar wasn’t very far off. “What’s she upset about?”  
“Well get the damned bloody things out!” Another burst of words came from the tent, followed by frantic thumping.  
“Girl problems,” C’loren said, his gaze wary as he regarded the tent, idly scratching at his left shoulder, right under a tattoo of crossed axes with roses twined around them. “No, really,” he said, looking back to Rororiku as the Lalafell scoffed. “That’s what Chris said, right before she threw me out. Said she had to talk to Danelle about something, and she was about to strip, so everyone who wasn’t a girl had to get out. She wouldn’t even let me grab trousers, and it’s damned cold out here.”  
He was right about that, there was most definitely a chill in the air. While the sun would warm things up soon enough, it hadn’t yet. Rororiku wasn’t convinced of the wisdom of sleeping in so little clothes, not when they might be roused from their bedrolls at a moment’s notice — the events of this morning being a perfect example of such — but he still had some degree of sympathy. Some things, such as sleeping with your trousers on while you were camping, you would only learn from bitter experience.  
“Well, looks as if we can’t do anything to help in there,” Rororiku said, focusing on practical matters for the time being. “So let’s get the fire started, see if we can’t warm up a bit and maybe even get a spot of breakfast going. Come on man, don’t just stand there! Help me with this firewood. It’s nearly as long as I am tall!”  
Between the two of them, ignoring the frantic shouts coming from within the tent — “No, I’m not putting it back on until all of them are gone, do you hear me? Just do some stinking magic or something!” — they soon managed to get the fire lit. Rororiku leaned over the fire, preparing some breakfast, while C’loren crouched close to the fire, the better to soak in its warmth. Rororiku sliced some carrots into the pan, the vegetables joining the popotoes and sliced sausages already roasting within. It wasn’t his finest work, but it would be filling enough, and give them energy for the day’s journey. The real challenge always was when the town-bought meats ran out.  
“Well then I will jump in the Velodyna, if that’s what it takes!” The muffled quality of the shout vanished partway through as the tent flap was flung open. Rororiku looked up as Chris strode out, immediately looking away as he realized she was bare as the day she was born. She stomped off towards the river, muttering a long string of incomprehensible words. Busying himself with breakfast, he heard but didn’t see Danelle settle on a log at the fireside.  
“You didn’t bring me my trousers,” C’loren said, feigning hurt feelings. At least, Rororiku thought he was probably only just pretending. “Or a shirt. Or even my favorite blanket.”  
“You don’t want them,” Danelle said.  
“What?” That time C’loren wasn’t faking the outrage. “Of course I do! It’s cold as Llymlaen’s bare toes out here.”  
“We have a sandmite infestation,” she explained. “I found them in our tent, as well as in Chris’s clothing.”  
Rororiku shuddered, scratching reflexively at his wrist, though he didn’t itch. Yet. Anyone who’d spent any time near the sands of Gyr Abania or Thanalan knew of sandmites. Nasty little vilekin, they got in your clothes and bed and made you itch like nothing else. Nothing a good scrub down couldn’t fix, but if you missed just a few they’d be back in force before long. They must have set down on a nest of them at one point. He sighed, remembering the previous day. Of course that would have been just his luck. Of all the places he could have picked to sit with their gear, it stands to reason he would have chosen a spot directly above a sandmite nest. Probably the only one in all of Rhalgr’s Reach.  
“We’ll have to wash everything,” C’loren said, as Rororiku took breakfast off the fire. He scrambled it around the pan so it wouldn’t stick, then left the dish on a nearby rock to cool a moment.  
“I know.” She sighed, a rare show of emotion for her. “Just what we need, more delays.”  
“It won’t be so long,” C’loren replied. “If we can get a good breeze going, I’m sure we can dry everything out in no time at all. Rororiku, you can do wind, right? With your red magic?”  
“Well, yes,” he said. “It’s a little more complicated than that, but the short answer is yes.”  
“I’m sure it’ll work just fine,” C’loren assured him.  
Danelle seemed less convinced, adjusting her spectacles as she asked, “A little more complicated how?”

\- - -

C’loren rubbed the tip of his tail absently, fingers brushing over the part where the hair had been singed off. Danelle had refused to heal it, saying it was his own fault for standing far too close to a novice Red Mage. How had he been supposed to know that “a little more complicated” had meant that lightning and fire was going to go everywhere? Not everyone had years of book learning, and how was real-world knowledge supposed to teach him the ins and outs of a sect of magic that had been all but wiped out some years before? The sting was to his pride as much as to his skin, and not improved by the fact that they were turned around once again.  
“You’re looking at the map upside-down,” Chris was saying, as Danelle shook her head.  
“No, because there’s the river. There ought to be a path up just here, but I don’t see it.”  
A faint breeze blew, offering some scant relief from the hot day. Now that he felt the full force of the sun’s rays, C’loren wondered if it wouldn’t have been better to leave some of their things wet. A damp cloth worn over the head and neck as a hat could work wonders in desert climates. Ah well, what’s done is done, and at least the sandmites had been dealt with. Cliffracer’s reins held loosely in one hand, he stepped away from the baffling map debate, surveying the area. In the distance, some creature bellowed. He wasn’t sure what it was, but i`t sure didn’t sound like a marid. Shading his eyes, he spotted a path climbing a short hill back west, the way they’d come.  
“Hey,” he called, waving the others over. “I think this is it, over here.”  
Only Rororiku, his short legs being unable to keep up with the others, rode up. The others walked, giving the chocobos a much-needed rest. The path was steep, and by the time they were partway up C’loren’s calves were burning.  
“Gods!” Rororiku said, gripping the saddle tightly with both hands, his startled eyes fixed on something off to the side. “Will you look at that?”  
Following his gaze, C’loren froze in place as he saw a beast unlike anything he’d ever encountered before. A long, low-slung leathery body, supported by four legs, with armored spikes covering its back. Behind it dragged a long tail with a bulbous tip, and its narrow head featured three wicked horns — one above each eye, and one atop its snout. Maybe this had been what had made the noise he’d heard earlier.  
“What is it?” he asked Danelle quietly, afraid to speak too loudly for fear of attracting unwanted attention. “Does it eat people, or plants?”  
“I don’t know,” she said, her voice uncertain. “I don’t recall reading about anything like this before.”  
“Would you look at that, we’ve found something she hasn’t read about in a book.” Chris’s amusement was plain in her voice, though she too kept her tone low. “Wasn’t sure that was possible.”  
Danelle’s lips tightened, her eyes darting to the side to stare at the Hyur. C’loren took a slow, steady step forward, brushing against Danelle to disrupt the brewing storm. “Let’s just take it slow and easy,” he said. “Hope it eats plants.”  
“Or just ate someone else,” Rororiku said grimly, eyes fixed on the lumbering beastkin as they passed by. Luckily, one or the other of them had been right, as the creature didn’t do more than stare at them as they moved past. Continuing up the hill, they were soon hailed by a sentry. Her hair was the color of pale sand, ears set back farther on her head than was usual. She wore leather and hide, long boots and a sturdy jacket, with a bow slung across her shoulders. Her sharp eyes seemed to miss nothing as she took them in.  
“What business do you have with the M tribe?” she asked, having given them a thorough visual inspection.  
“We’re here to speak with M’shyala,” C’loren said. “Her daughter, M’treya, sent us.”  
“All the way from Rhalgr’s Reach?” the lookout’s eyes widened and she nodded, clearly impressed. “Well then, you’re welcome to rest your feet at the Peering Stones. Just so we’re clear, you bare any steel, touch that piece,” she indicated C’loren’s gun, “or start doing spellwork of any kind without permission, you’ll be filled with a dozen arrows before you can take so much as a step. We clear?”  
“Of course,” he replied, the others murmuring assent behind him.  
“All right then,” the sentry said. “I’ll lead you up. Mind your step. If you thought that last path was steep, I’ll warn you, this one’s worse. But it’s not far.”

\- - -

Chris dismounted, her sabatons sending up little puffs of dust as they slammed into the dirt. The journey had taken them longer than expected — three whole days, from start to finish — but they were finally back in Rhalgr’s Reach, with the goods. The biggest delay had been in the Peering Stones, where M’shyala had insisted on feeding them and having them spend the night, before letting them go, saddlebags heavy with home-cooked foodstuffs. The situation had been a little bit awkward, as M’shyala seemed to think they knew her daughter much better than they actually did, as she pressed them for details about how the girl was doing. She’d felt for C’loren especially, as M’shyala had spent the first half of their dinner hinting strongly that her daughter needed a handsome Miqo’te to look out for her. It had only let up when Danelle had taken her aside and discreetly explained matters. Even that intervention hadn’t prevented no fewer than two well-muscled rangers from stopping by at breakfast on their way to their morning bath, already stripped from the waist up. Rororiku reckoned it was just a coincidence — M’shyala did like to feed the village, and her cooking was good — but Chrissel knew a meddling matchmaker when she saw one.  
Now they just had to give the food to M’treya, who would then disclose to them what she knew about where the Warrior of Light had gone, and then they could finally be on their gods damned way. Three days later than they could have been. Why did everything always have to be so complicated? She lifted the larger bag off her chocobo and slung it over her shoulder, adjusting to the uneven weight as she walked towards the market. M’treya’s table was just as they’d left it, products strewn across the counter with a smiling Miqo’te leaning over them. Gods, she was cute. A little bit mad, just a little, but cute. Her ears perked up and she straightened as they approached.  
“You’re back! I was a little worried, but hoped Ma was just keeping you.”  
“She did, and some other stuff happened too,” Chris explained. “We made it, though. With all the goods we could carry.”  
She set the weight of the bag down on the counter with a quiet thump. Behind her, she heard the others — minus Rororiku, who would have been dragging the bag along the ground had he taken one — do the same, depositing their entire load on and around the market stall. M’treya was almost quivering with excitement, a grin lighting up her face as she looked at the luggage in anticipation.  
“That’s our part,” C’loren said, his ears twitching back as he addressed the other Miqo’te. “Now can you tell us what you know?”  
“In a minute,” she said, already digging into the bag Chris had set down on the counter. After a moment, she came out with a square of oatcake, nibbling on the corner. “Oh, this is so good! I feel bad, like I should be paying you for going all that way to fetch it for me.”  
Chris felt the end of C’loren’s tail brush against the side of her leg as he replied, his words short. “You can pay us by telling us what we asked about. Three days ago.” Ooh, he was getting mad. His guilt over what had happened must only go so far. Or maybe the incessant attentions of M’shyala had bothered him more than he’d let on. That was likely, she thought. Poor C’loren.  
“Yeah, okay,” M’treya said, around a mouth full of oatcake. “Gimme a minute.” She ducked beneath the counter, the sounds of rummaging and munching drifting up through the hot summer air. After a minute, she emerged, holding a small packet tied with thin red ribbon. Her ears twitched as she handed it over, eyes fixed on the counter as she spoke, even more rapidly than usual. “It’s all here, I wrote it down for you, so I wouldn’t forget any of it.”  
“Everything’s here?” C’loren asked as Chris took the compact package. It was folded parchment, small enough to be concealed inside both hands. “You didn’t leave anything out?”  
“No!” she said, shaking her head, her earrings clinking together as she moved. “Everything about the Warrior of Light, and everything he said, ah, I wrote it all down! Now I have to go eat now, bye!”  
She dragged the bags off the counter, nearly falling over as the weight of them hit her. Yanking the curtain down to cover her booth, she darted backwards into the tent behind her, dragging the heavy bags across the dirt behind her. As the tent flap closed behind her, Rororiku let out a soft “huh” of confusion.  
“Okay,” C’loren said, after a stunned moment’s silence. “I know I’m not the best at reading this girl, so take this with a grain of salt. But did that seem incredibly odd to anyone else, just now?”  
“It was strange,” Chris confirmed, frowning at the brightly-patterned tent. “She wasn’t acting like that when we talk to her before. Something happened, you think?”  
“Must have,” Rororiku said, beginning to drag the remaining bags back behind the counter.  
“What are you doing?” Danelle asked him.  
“Well, regardless of what may or may not have happened in our absence, we have a deal to uphold. I wouldn’t want her getting robbed, especially not something her Ma cared enough to take all that time to bake!”  
Danelle shook her head, but Chris, ignoring the Elezen’s reaction, stepped forward to assist Rororiku in moving the heavy bags. Only once the goods had all been safely stowed away behind the counter did she turn her attention to the packet. She untied the ribbon, slipping it away into a pocket, but before she could unfold the paper Danelle spoke.  
“Can we trust her?”  
It was a fair point. If something had happened, someone had bribed her maybe, threatened her, or something like that, they could be walking into a trap.  
“It’s a little too much effort to go to for a set up,” C’loren reasoned, seeming to be following a similar train of thought to her own. “Besides, wouldn’t the ambush have happened on the way to the Peering Stones, if that was the case?”  
“Unless it wasn’t her idea,” Chris said, her heart sinking as she remembered what had happened at the Vepar’s Bill, not even a fortnight ago. “You know there’s people who want me dead, and they’ll take down the rest of you without even a thought.”  
“On the other hand,” C’loren said, “it’s the only lead we have. Can we afford not to follow it?”  
The question hung heavy in the air. They all exchanged silent looks as they mulled it over in their own minds. Chris knew he was right. They couldn’t afford to throw away the only lead they had. At the same time, there was definitely something fishy going on here, and disregarding that could be the last mistake they ever made.  
“We have to follow the lead,” Danelle said, finally. “If not, we might as well give up.”  
“I’m not giving up,” Chris said, her hands balling into fists as she spoke the determined words. “I might not be good at a lot of things, but I will find the Warrior of Light, if it’s the last thing I do.”  
“We’ll be careful,” C’loren said. “Check things out before we jump headfirst into anything. If this is a trap, and it very well might be, we should be able to see it before it’s sprung. If we’re smart.”  
“You probably don’t want me along then,” Rororiku said, his voice grim. “I’ll bring the whole ambush down on you just by existing.”  
“You can’t leave now!” C’loren said. “Who’s going to cook, if you leave? I’m not going back to eating salted jerky and boiled greens, that’s no way to travel. Besides, if the worst happens, I want you by my side. Just do what you did before, with all that fire, except this time point it at the bad guys.”  
“It was your own fault,” Danelle said. “He told you not to stand there, but you did anyway.”  
“I wanted to watch,” C’loren said, his ears dipping for a moment as he was chastised, then he looked back to Rororiku. “You won’t leave, though?”  
“I’ll stay,” he replied. “For the time being. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”  
“Consider me warned,” C’loren said, looking back to Chris. “Now, let’s see what the big secret is about.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens... :O
> 
> Everyone loves a good sandwich quest. What else are heroes good for, than to go fetch your sandwiches for you? Even the Warrior of Light did it. (See MSQ: The Ladle in the Darkness)


	8. A Chance Encounter

Danelle took a sip of her wine — watered, but not as terrible as she’d expect from such an outpost — before returning her attention to the pieces of parchment arrayed on the table before her. A copy of purchase records for gemstones. A page covered front and back in looping handwriting in which M’treya recounted her experience with the Warrior of Light in full detail. And a third, smaller bit of parchment, on which she had noted down an address, labeling it “Hancock - The Ruby Bazaar.” The picture the documents painted wasn’t one she was eager to see.  
“Half a world away,” Chris said, tossing down the rest of a pint. Her fourth, by Danelle’s count. She wondered if the Hyur would be drinking so much if she was the one paying, rather than Danelle. Her pockets may be deep, but they were far from infinite.  
“What I don’t understand,” Rororiku said, standing atop his stool in order to see over the table, “is why the Warrior of Light has suddenly turned into a gem merchant.”  
“Triphanes are valuable,” Danelle said, taking another slow sip. “Not here, as they can be easily mined in this region. But if you were to take them overseas, to a place such as Doma…” she trailed off, not needing to finish the sentence. Even a layman understood simple supply versus demand.  
“Everybody needs coin,” C’loren concluded. “Might as well take advantage where you can, right? I take it the Warrior of Light was going that way anyway.”  
“That’s what it looks like,” Chris confirmed. “Accompanying the Domans back home, it says. Right there.”  
“Makes sense,” C’loren said, taking a swallow of his own drink — his first — to wash down his food. At least someone here was drinking conservatively. “I saw them, at the battle. Riding in on those crazy birds. I didn’t get a good look them, because everything started to go south right around that time, but I remember the birds. Big enough to eat a Lalafell.”  
“Well, I must say that all this talk of Lalafell-eating birds is really making me want to visit Doma!” Rororiku frowned, crossing his arms.  
“Nooo,” Chris said, drawing the word out as she slung an arm around him, nearly toppling him from the stool. “I’ll protect you from the birds. Don’t you worry, Li’l Red!”  
Danelle shook her head, ignoring both Chris’s antics and Rororiku’s confused mouthing of the new nickname. “I highly doubt those birds exist in Kugane. It’s quite a large city.”  
“Also quite far away,” C’loren pointed out. “We’d have to go by ship. Are there even travel routes that go so far east?”  
“Doma used to be an imperial territory,” Danelle said. “Naturally, this discouraged trade. Now that they’ve won their liberation, I suspect there will be many entrepreneurs looking to enter a new market.”  
“So what you’re saying,” Chris said, shifting her half-drunken attention back to the rest of the conversation, “is that there’s gonna be lots of caravans.”  
“Ships, but yes. I expect we would be able to find transportation in most any major—.”  
“’Scuse me, sorry to bother.” Danelle looked up as a rough voice interrupted interrupted her. A Roegadyn — a Maelstrom soldier, by his uniform — was the one who had spoken. He stood an arm’s length away, dark hair gathered back behind his green-tinged neck, which he scratched at nervously. Behind her, she heard Chris push her chair back as she stood, likely taking the opportunity to make herself scarce at the counter.  
“Can I help you?” Danelle asked, her tone carefully measured.  
“Actually, I needed to talk to him.” The Roegadyn thumbed over to C’loren, who sat up a little straighter, brows knotting in confusion. “Got a bet going, see, with the rest of the boys. I was hoping you could settle it for us.”  
“I can try,” C’loren said.  
“I see you’ve got some scars there, and they look fresh,” the Roegadyn indicated the burns down C’loren’s face and neck. “You wouldn’t have happened to get those at the battle for Ala Mhigo, would you?”  
“I was there, yes,” C’loren replied, his tone wary. Danelle wasn’t sure what the Roegadyn was working towards, either. She began mentally assembling a simple misdirection, in case it was necessary to make a quick escape.  
“And did you happen to be stationed up on Salwatch Hill, with the boys from Ishgard?”  
“I was, yes. Why—” he was interrupted by a roar and the slap of the Roegadyn’s huge hand on his back, nearly knocking him from his chair. Coughing, he braced himself against the table, looking wide-eyed to the soldier, who was now laughing.  
“I knew it! I just bloody knew it! Oh, everyone was in a right mess looking for you. And here you are, hiding away all the way back in Rhalgr’s Reach, all this time!”  
“Uh, not exactly,” C’loren stumbled over his words, ears twitching in confusion, an emotion that Danelle shared.  
“Who was looking for him?” she asked, the words sharper than intended. “And why?”  
“Who? The Ishgardian sergeant, of course. Apparently, nobody bothered to write down any names of the volunteers they pulled, you know how it is. Makes finding them again if you need to a right pain in the arse. They ended up coming to us, because I guess they thought you were some kind of Maelstrom soldier, out of uniform? Maybe it was the accent, I dunno. But we said no, don’t know anyone by that description at all, and a damned shame too.”  
“But why?” she repeated, beginning to lose patience with the Roegadyn’s rambling. If C’loren had done something to warrant a full search by the Ishgardian forces, she should know about it. It could jeopardize the entire mission, if it turned out he was some sort of wanted fugitive.  
“Why? You’re asking me why?” The Roegadyn looked from her to C’loren, then laughed again, the booming sound seeming to nearly rattle the plates and cups littering the table. His gaze finally came to rest on C’loren. “Gods, she doesn’t know, does she? You didn’t tell her.”  
“Tell me what? What is going on here?” She didn’t like being kept in the dark. Nobody did, but she was well aware she tolerated it less than most.  
“This man,” the Roegadyn clapped his giant arm on C’loren’s shoulder again, earning a wince from the much-smaller Miqo’te, “is a gods damned war hero, is what’s going on here!”  
C’loren? A war hero? He was sitting hunched over, ears tucked all the way back, head propped on his fist and turned to face the wall to conceal his expression, seeming to be trying to be as small and unnoticeable as possible. It was an impossible task, with the loudest Roegadyn in the entire tavern standing right next to him. The Roegadyn had been continuing to talk, though she’d stopped listening for a moment, shocked as she was by his pronouncement.  
“—kept those cannons going, even when the whole hill was aflame!” he was saying, giving C’loren another solid smack on the back. That couldn’t feel pleasant against his still-healing wounds. “Of course there’s only so much anyone could do, but if we’d lost the artillery earlier, who knows what would have happened. A lot more would’ve died, for sure. The battle could’ve gone mighty different, in the end. But listen to me, rambling away and forgetting all my manners!” She doubted he’d had many in the first place. “Name’s, ah, Salt Whisper, by the way.”  
C’loren looked over for the first time since the boisterous explanation had begun. Despite his dark tan, the blush he had been hiding was still visible. “Untranslated?”  
So he’d heard the hesitation, too. The Roegadyn gave a nod, and pronounced his name slowly, as if speaking to a child. The sounds were rough and foreign, hailing from Old Roegadyn, a language which she did not speak. Well, nobody properly did, not anymore. Some limited knowledge was still around, however, and thrived in certain communities.  
C’loren gave a slight nod, thinking for a moment before he gave it a try. “Skrakriskthar,” he said, the syllables rolled off his tongue as easily as if he’d grown up speaking them. She couldn’t stop the pang of jealousy as it hit her. She’d spent more time that she could afford studying what little was known of the Old Roegadyn tongue, but all it had earned her was the ability to painstakingly sound out their names.  
Skrakriskthar looked stunned for a moment, then laughed again, though quieter than before. “You’ve got the sea on your tongue! Not common, that. Don’t suppose you happened to be raised by Sea Wolves, eh?”  
“No,” C’loren shook his head quickly, dispelling that idea. “I spent some time working with Roegadyns, a few years back. I just picked it up, I suppose.”  
“Most wouldn’t bother,” Skrakriskthar said, looking impressed. “Anything I should call you?”  
“I’m C’loren,” he introduced himself, still a little flushed, but enough to be mistaken for the influence of drink — though he wasn’t intoxicated — rather than the self-conscious embarrassment he was clearly suffering.  
“Well, C’loren, it’s a pleasure to meet you! Was starting to think you might not exist after all, but here you are, right in front of me. Man was right after all. You must’ve been with the freelancers, yeah? Where’re you off to, after this?”  
C’loren looked across the table to the others. Rororiku remained silent, seeming intimidated by the loud and extremely large figure that had invaded their little corner of the tavern. Danelle saw C’loren’s eyes flick from her, to the documents, and back to her again, the question lingering behind them. She didn’t see the harm in it, provided he didn’t disclose everything about their mission. She gave a little nod back, wiggling her fingers to indicate just a little bit. He nodded in response, and looked back to Skrakriskthar.  
“Doma,” he said. “We’ll likely be leaving soon, it’s a long walk back east.”  
“Back east?” Skrakriskthar shook his head. “That’s no good. The port out by Ala Mhigo’s still closed, and no word on how long. That’s bureaucracy, for you. West’s the way to go. I know the Domans themselves had plans to charter a ship out of Vesper Bay, all the way down in Thanalan. That’s where I’d go, at any rate.”  
Danelle winced. That far? C’loren appeared to share her sentiment, frowning as he spoke. “There’s nowhere in the Shroud?”  
“Not as I’ve heard,” Skrakriskthar said, shaking his head. “They’ve got docks, but they’re for the little ships, see? Nothing that’ll survive a trip across the Sea of Jade and beyond.”  
C’loren nodded. “You’re right. And you’re sure the Doman forces are taking that route?”  
“That’s right, heard it myself. Their commander was talking to my commander, asking the best way to go now that the eastern ports were closed. She suggested the same way we intended to go, except we’ll be continuing back to Vylbrand of course. Say, if you’re going that way, why don’t you come along? Safety in numbers, and all that. Nobody’ll mind, not once I tell ‘em who you are, at any rate. What do you say?”  
C’loren looked to Danelle, whose lips tightened as she returned the look, with a quick flick of her eyes towards the counter where Chris had made herself scarce. This was a complicated question, one that couldn’t be answered here and now. Certainly not without consulting Chris, who had the most to lose by consorting with any grand company, even one that wasn’t the Immortal Flames.  
“There’s another member of our party who isn’t here right now,” C’loren said. “I can’t say for sure until we’ve had the chance to talk the plan over together.”  
“Fair enough,” Skrakriskthar said, with a nod. “We move out tomorrow at first light, if you care to join us. If not, no hard feelings. ‘Till sea swallows all, friend.”

\- - -

“Everyone needs to calm down, right now!” Silence fell over the group as Rororiku shouted, standing atop the overturned barrel he’d been using as a stool. They were out behind the tavern now, sitting in the dark and discussing what to do about the Maelstrom offer, without much success. C’loren had been in a strange, quiet mood ever since their encounter with the Roegadyn, Danelle was being pushy and opinionated, and Chris was flat-out drunk and refusing to listen to anything anyone had to say. This wouldn’t do at all! “That’s better,” he said, rubbing a knuckle against his goatee as he thought. “Now that we’re done with all that, let’s sit down and do this right. The matter at hand, as I understand it, is whether to take the Maelstrom forces up on their offer of an escort to, where was it again?”  
“Vesper Bay,” Danelle said.  
“Right. So either we go with them, bright and early tomorrow, or we make our own way in our own time. We just have to decide, one way or the other. Ah!” He held up a hand to silence Chris, who’d opened her mouth again. “Hold up! We are going to talk one person at a time. None of this shouting over each other! You may only talk if you are holding the—” he paused as he rummaged in his belt pouch. Where was it? He always had it on him, day or night. It had been a childhood present from his father, before he passed. Aha, there it was! He pulled his hand out, displaying a small figure of a boar, masterfully carved of wood and just the perfect size to fit in his fist. “—talk-talk totem!”  
“The talk-talk totem?” Danelle visibly bristled, hands clenching in her lap. “We’re not children.”  
“Doesn’t matter! If you’re going to bicker like children, then you’re going to have to be treated like children. Call it anything else if you must, but unless you have a better suggestion…?” She shook her head. “All right, then. So, what we know is, we need to get to Vesper Bay. Vesper Bay is quite a long ways off, a fortnight perhaps?” Noticing C’loren lift his head, Rororiku offered him the totem, which the Miqo’te took momentarily.  
“Ten or twelve days,” he said. “At a steady march.”  
Taking the totem back, Rororiku continued. “The Domans, and the Warrior of Light, are three or four days ahead of us, so likely well into the Black Shroud by now. The good news is, they won’t be moving any faster than we will. The bad news is, we need to move soon if we don’t want to fall even farther behind. So that brings us to the dilemma of the evening. To join up with the Maelstrom forces, or strike out on our own? Danelle?” He offered her the totem, which she took only begrudgingly, letting it sit on the tips of her fingers.  
“Would we be able to move faster on our own, without an army?” She moved to hand the totem back to Rororiku, but he motioned to C’loren instead, who had extended his hand.  
“Doubtful,” C’loren said, accepting the totem. “Not over that period of time, at any rate. The chocobos could be pushed for a few days, but after that they’d tire. Once we reach the desert, it will be even worse. Not to mention other delays.” He made to hand the totem back, but Rororiku motioned for him to continue, raising an eyebrow. “Like finding food and water, setting a guard, all that. More people move more slowly, but shared resources mean we’ll be spending less potential travel time on things that aren’t moving forward.” This time, Rororiku accepted the totem back when it was handed to him.  
“The biggest downside of joining the Maelstrom march is Chris,” he said, looking to where she sat on the ground, having abandoned any attempt at balancing on top of the crates. When had she gotten this drunk? It must have been after she left the table. Had she gone to the counter and compulsively sipped drinks the whole time they’d been talking to the Roegadyn — whatever his name was — until they’d gone to gather her? It seemed to have been the only possible opportunity she’d had.  
“They hate me,” she slurred and he shook his head, holding the totem up where she could see it.  
“Take this first, here,” he offered it to her, but before she managed to reach it Danelle had snatched it out of his hand, earning a scowl. That wasn’t how this worked!  
“Isn’t that a little bit conceited?” Danelle asked. C’loren tried to take the totem from her, but she held on, continuing to speak even as his fingers pried at the wood. “Hear me out. These are Maelstrom soldiers, not the Immortal Flames. They know of you I’m sure, but they do not know you.” She stressed the final word, making the distinction between the two statements clear. “You look the same as every other dark-skinned Highlander woman who fought in the liberation, and that’s not a group in short supply. You could be anybody. It’s incredibly narcissistic to believe they would see you, and immediately know exactly who you were.”  
Rudely delivered, but a fair point to make. Rororiku made sure to keep his expression disapproving, so as to send the proper message as Danelle finally allowed C’loren to claw the totem out of her hands. “It’s not how I would’ve said it,” C’loren said once he possessed the wooden beastkin, with a final sharp look towards Danelle, “but she’s right. Chris,” he addressed her now, his expression sympathetic but encouraging at the same time, “I bet you can walk right on in there, under a false name, and they’ll never know the difference. They’re on their way home, thinking of rum, salt cod and a warm bed, not what went wrong with another grand company during their last engagement. They won’t be looking. You’ll be invisible.”  
Rororiku was glad to see that C’loren was back to his usual self. Well, closer to it than he had been before, at least. Clearly he didn’t want the attention that had been thrust upon him, and Rororiku couldn’t blame him. “Gods damned war hero” was a heavy title, one that Rororiku knew he himself would shed as quickly as possible. Who wanted all that fuss? The Miqo’te probably hoped he could become invisible himself, though Rororiku thought that would be significantly less likely than Chris managing to escape notice, if the Roegadyn they’d met earlier had been any indication.  
Rororiku blinked, returning to the moment as Chris lunged across the packed dirt, towards C’loren. For a moment he thought she was attacking the Miqo’te, but then he realized that she’d enveloped the smaller man in a sloppy, drunken hug. Danelle darted out of the way as the two of them tilted alarmingly to the side, Chris’s weight pulling C’loren off the crate he was perched upon, but they managed to stabilize before disaster struck. C’loren patted her shoulder, the wooden boar still held safely in his other hand.  
“I love you guys,” Chris said, her words not only melting together from the influence of drink, but being further muffled by C’loren’s shoulder. Rororiku had to listen hard to understand what she was saying. “You’re so nice to me. I don’t deserve to be with you.”  
Rororiku stepped across the crates, moving over so that he could give her shoulder a sympathetic pat as well. “You’re all right,” he said, retrieving the little statue from C’loren’s grasp as he spoke. It had served its purpose.  
“You won’t leave me?” She lifted her head and sniffed, tears smeared across her cheeks.  
“Of course we won’t leave you,” Rororiku reassured her, then looked up to the others. “So, is that settled then? We’ll go along with the Maelstrom soldiers?”  
Danelle inclined her head in agreement. C’loren, his arms still full of Highlander, spoke instead. “At first light. Sober or not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roegadyn names are hard. I had to add that one to the dictionary just so I'd know at a glance if I'd made a typo.
> 
> I'm basing distances in this story off the worldbuilding rule of thumb that you should place settlements along roads spaced about about one day's walk apart. I'm aware that you can run from one side of the game world to the other in less than an hour, but that's obviously not realistic. I'm sure somebody somewhere on the internet has worked out canon distances, but I didn't think to research that before starting work, so I'm just eyeballing it. If anything, the scale feels like it's almost too small.
> 
> This is roughly the end of the first story arc. I hope anyone reading is enjoying it so far! There's, uh, quite a ways left to go. NaNoFiMo, anyone?


	9. Among the Maelstrom

A light but steady rain fell as the column of soldiers made its way through the shallows of Rootslake, boots and chocobo feet alike splashing through the muddy waters. Chris had traveled through this area before, on the great march from Ul’Dah to Ala Mhigo, but the excitement and stress of her first, short-lived, military command had left her with little energy to take in the sights. And what sights they were.  
Plants of all kinds bloomed in the forest of the Black Shroud, everything from tall stalks tipped with a golden spray of petals to smaller clusters of flowers that seemed to shift from blue to purple depending on how you looked at them. Towering above them were great trees, wrapped in ivy. The canopy above had begun to thin this far south, no longer blocking the afternoon sunlight, but providing even less shelter from the rain than they’d enjoyed further north.  
At least the drizzle was keeping the hoverflies away. She’d thought such swarms were a plague of deserts, but apparently they existed everywhere. If the sting and itch of their bites didn’t have you ready to beat your head against the nearest trunk — and revisit lingering worries about sandmites, besides — then the incessant buzzing would surely drive you insane. How could people live here? She considered asking Rororiku — he’d grown up in the Black Shroud, she remembered him saying — but the little Lalafell was currently napping, tucked neatly between her and the chocobo’s neck. She didn’t want to wake him.  
She rode with her head down, focusing on the spot directly in front of her chocobo. The dark green scarf she had wrapped around her neck and head, ensuring there was plenty left loose around her face, served to conceal her identity from any casual onlookers, but it was still best not to press her luck. She wasn’t entirely comfortable with this arrangement, not by a long shot, but it hadn’t been as bad as she’d feared. Well, besides the fact that her stomach always knotted whenever she was approached by one of the Maelstrom soldiers. And she kept forgetting to respond to Hilda Fireshield, the false name C’loren and Rororiku had devised for her. But overall, they’d been welcomed with open arms and a much-appreciated lack of questions.  
Her thoughts quieted for the moment, leaving only a dull ache in her head. They’d made Buscarron’s Druthers early the previous evening, well ahead of schedule according to C’loren, and a halt had been called in order to patronize the local tavern, a ritual she’d had no objection to partaking in. As usual, she’d failed to consider the following day’s consequences. The worst was over — her stomach had been roiling for the first half of the day’s ride — but a pulsing pain persisted above her right ear. She gathered the reins in her left hand, raising her right to press against the spot that hurt. It didn’t help.  
She winced as a horn blew ahead, a high-pitched whining sound that she knew came from a horn made of shell. Three short blasts came, and were answered by two short blasts and a long from behind. Maelstrom signals were different from those used in the Immortal Flames, in code as well as in instrument, but she had picked up some knowledge in the several days they’d been traveling. They were calling a short rest, if she wasn’t mistaken. She reined her chocobo in, reassured in her assessment as she saw others around her doing the same, and nudged Rororiku.  
“Eh?” he said, his voice thick with sleep. “What’s this?”  
“Rest,” she said. “We’re in a lake though, so you’d best stay up there.”  
“To rest?” He paused for a moment to think, then continued, his tone turning grumpy. “Why’d you wake me, then?”  
“So you wouldn’t fall off when I did this.” She kicked her feet out of the stirrups and swung her leg over the chocobo’s back, both feet splashing down into the water. It didn’t even reach to her knees, but Rororiku would have been wading through water at least waist-height. It would be better for him to stay on the Chocobo, until they’d reached the night’s campsite on the other side of Rootslake.  
“How’s your head?” he asked, his voice concerned. He hadn’t sounded so concerned that morning, when he’d been reminding her that it was her own fault she felt like a pile of moldy garbage. He’d still been nicer than Danelle, who was holding infuriatingly steady on her policy of not using Arcanist magic to heal hangovers. What was even the bloody point of having it, if you weren’t going to use it the one time it was actually worth it? Rororiku obviously disapproved, and didn’t shy away from delivering harsh truths, but at least he cared.  
Realizing she hadn’t answered his question, she shook her head. “Sorry. Still hurts, but it’s getting better.”  
“Well that’s good.” He stretched both arms into the air, loosening his joints the best he could while still on chocoboback.  
“It’s a shame we’re not passing close enough to stop by your home,” she said, not recalling the exact village he hailed from, but knowing it wasn’t this far south.  
“No, it’s not.” His expression darkened. “They’re better off if I don’t stop by, you know that.  
“That’s utter bollocks and you know it. Your Ma would love to give you a hug.”  
“Oh, she would. But then the trouble would start. The milk would spoil, the roof spring a leak, the cat would run off and get stuck under a tree—”  
“Don’t you mean up a tree?” she interrupted, but he shook his head.  
“No, I mean under the tree. The hole wasn’t even half big enough for his head. It wasn’t even possible for him to have crawled there in the first place, but there you have it. The curse has a way with the impossible.”  
“We’ve been over this before,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You’re not cursed, that’s the biggest pile of shite I’ve ever heard.”  
“I am cursed though,” he said, taking off his hat to smooth his rumpled hair before replacing it on his head. “Just like my Da, and his Da before him, and so on all the way back. It follows the eldest son.”  
“Okay so, let’s say that’s true.” She knew she shouldn’t poke the Lalafell, but she was looking for a bit of an argument today. “In all these generations, why hasn’t anyone just not had children? Wouldn’t that stop the curse?”  
“I suppose it would at that, but at what cost? You can’t ask a man not to have a family.” He looked aghast at the very thought, hands frozen on the brim of his hat.  
“Says the man who won’t even stop by for a visit,” she said, shaking her head at the contradiction.  
“And don’t you think I feel terrible about that?” Guilt flooded her as she saw the expression on his face. She shouldn’t have gone there. She opened her mouth to say she was sorry, but he shook his head, lowering his hands to his lap. “No, don’t apologize. You’re correct. I’m painfully aware of how correct you are. I still can’t bring myself to go back, to inflict that on them. I suppose one day I’ll want to start a family of my own, but I’m not ready to face that yet either.”  
“Why not just hope for a girl, and then stop after the one? Won’t that end the curse?”  
He barked a bitter laugh, shaking his head again. “No, the first child is always a boy. Always.”  
“What?” she stared up at him, not getting the joke. Was he being serious? “You’re telling me that after, uh, how long was it again?”  
“Thirteen generations,” he said, and she let out a low whistle. That was a long time.  
“Wow. So, thirteen generations. Thirteen Lalafells having children. And not a one of them has had a girl first, and then just stopped?”  
“If only it was that easy,” he said. “We’re cursed with the worst luck, remember? The first is always a boy. After that, you can have all the girls you want. But never the first.”  
A chill ran up her spine. Was she actually starting to believe in this? It was silly, there was no such thing as cursed family lines, everyone knew that. But standing here and listening to him explain it so matter of factly, she was almost beginning to believe it herself. The sandmite incident had been mighty unlucky, after all. But what was she even thinking about? The very idea was mad! She tossed her head, letting the motion travel down her shoulders and hips to shake off the uncomfortable sensation.  
“You should at least write her a letter,” she said, after gathering her thoughts. “If I still had my Ma, I’d write her one.”  
“Oh, your Ma has passed? I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” Of course he hadn’t. She hadn’t told him. It wasn’t exactly something she waved around, being an orphan. She didn’t like it when people felt sorry for her.  
“My Da too, same accident. Don’t worry about it. It was a long time ago.”  
“Can I ask what happened?”  
She shrugged. “You can ask, but I can’t answer. I don’t know myself. I was only four. All I know is there was some kind of fight, they got caught up in it all, and didn’t make it through.”  
“If you could write her a letter,” he said, speaking slowly, as if carefully choosing his words. “I mean today, and have her read it somehow. If you don’t mind me asking, what would you say?”  
She took a deep breath, thinking. That was a hard question. She’d been angry a lot, as a child, and especially after she’d been bought from the orphanage by the Coliseum. But that wasn’t really her Ma’s fault, was it? Or her Da’s? They hadn’t wanted to be killed. They weren’t responsible for what had happened. It was just the fate of anyone who dared to be poor in the great city of Ul’Dah. You tended to get stepped on. Like a big, ugly pantry beetle. But what would she say?  
“I don’t really know. I’d probably write it out and crumple it up a bunch of times, trying to figure it out. I guess maybe I’d just say that I wish things had been different, that she was still here. But then I’d probably throw that away too, because it’s too damned sentimental.” She exhaled in a brief laugh, rubbing the side of her head again. “I guess I probably never would write that letter. Wouldn’t know what to say, nothing feels right. But you’re not me. You’re better than me. So you’d better go write your Ma a letter and tell her you love her.”  
“I’ll write it tonight,” he said, as the call to resume march sounded down the column. “She wouldn’t appreciate my attempts at penmanship while riding on the back of a chocobo.”  
“A fair point,” she said, stretching out one final time before re-mounting her bird. “First thing after dinner, though?”  
“I will. I promise.”

\- - -

C’loren set his feet among the scraggly tufts of grass, feeling the sandy dirt between his bare toes. Among the rocky crags and forked cacti of the Thanalan desert, just a short ways from the Maelstrom camp, he took advantage of the faint light of dawn to run through an old training drill. Scars — new and old alike — pulled as he stretched, one foot back, then twisted forward, body moving in a familiar, if clumsy dance. He’d been more limber than this before Ala Mhigo. He hated being injured.  
“Did your chirurgeon say you could do this?” A voice came from behind him and he straightened up, wiping sweat from his brow. Gods, it was already hot, and he was only wearing light trousers. If the heat kept up, tomorrow he’d have to do this in the middle of the night, just to keep from overheating. He turned, already knowing who it would be from the question alone.  
Danelle stood a short distance away, arms folded as she watched. As they’d crossed into the desert she’d finally given up her jacket, leaving it with their supplies. The dark shirt she wore beneath it still didn’t strike him as well-suited for the climate, and she looked uncomfortably warm already, even though the sun was barely up. He wished she’d trade the fancy Ishgardian fashion for some more sensible clothes. The heat made her grouchy. She was only teasing this time, though.  
“No,” he replied, smirking. At least, he hoped she was only teasing, because if she wasn’t this conversation wasn’t going to end well. “Because I didn’t ask her for permission.”  
“I believe I said light exercise,” she said, a faint copy of his own expression on her face. So she had been teasing. Good. “Not whatever it was you were doing just now.”  
“That was light exercise!” he protested. “Everything’s all stiff. I need to limber up again, otherwise I’m never going to heal properly.”  
“You’ll never heal at all if you re-open the wounds,” she said, but took a seat on a nearby rock. “Go on, then. Just be careful.”  
He nodded, setting his feet again. His right side was the most troublesome, the stiffness impeding his ability to twist and dodge. Thinking back through years of flexibility training exercises, he found one that should do the trick. He gritted his teeth as the old wound in his side pulled. It always hurt, when he did this.  
“Stop!” Danelle called, suddenly right beside him. “What are you doing? You’re hurting yourself.”  
“It’s not the burns,” he said, standing upright again and motioning to the faint scar that ran across his lower back and hip. “See? Took an axe to the side. A few years old, not recently. It still hurts when I do some things, but I’m going to make worse by bending and stretching. It’s just something I have to deal with.”  
“Hmm,” she said, not bothering to ask for permission before running her fingertip lightly along the scar. He shivered at the unexpected touch. They were in a desert, so how were her hands so cold? After examining the entire length of the scar, she looked to him, sharp eyes glinting behind her glasses. “You didn’t see a chirurgeon for this?”  
How could she tell how it had been healed, just be looking? “I did, it was just too late. It had already begun to heal on its own by the time we found one, so he couldn’t mend the muscles properly, or something like that. He worked on it a little, but there wasn’t much he could do.”  
“I see,” she said, falling silent. He knew better than to talk, though. That frown on her face meant she was thinking, and wouldn’t appreciate the interruption. After a minute, she spoke again. “In theory, this could be fixed.”  
His ears perked up and he nodded. “I’m listening.”  
“According to conventional wisdom, the chirurgeon was correct. A wound that has already begun to heal on its own must be mended in accordance with the new bonds that have already formed between muscles, bones, and so on. However, if you were to act with deliberate precision and care, it would be possible to revert the situation to the exact original case, rendering such preexisting bonds volatile. Theoretically.”  
“Okay,” he said slowly, buying himself time to process that statement. What did it even mean? He knew most of those words on their own, but the sentence as a whole was impossible to understand. He hated when she spoke like this. “I completely understood all of that. Theoretically.”  
“What?” she asked, folding her arms as her expression darkened. Okay, now she was getting mad. That hadn’t been what he wanted.  
“Sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “I just have no idea what you said right there, especially that last part.”  
“I don’t know how to explain it in terms you’d understand,” she said. “I don’t even know if I could explain the abstract concept to another Arcanist. It’s a fair bit beyond what is normally taught at the Guild.”  
“Then don’t explain the abstract concept. Just tell me, in straight, simple terms, what you want to do to me.”  
“I want to open the wound exactly as it was when you were first wounded. And then put it back together again. Properly, this time.”  
He laughed, then saw the expression on her face. Oh, shite. She was serious. The amusement faded from his own expression as his ears twitched back. “Uh, I’m going to have to say no. That’s insane.”  
“It’s not insane,” she protested. “It makes perfect sense.”  
“Grabbing an axe and slicing me open again makes perfect sense?”  
“No, of course not! An axe is nowhere near precise enough. I would use the Arcanum.”  
“Because that’s a whole lot better, yeah. What about the scarring? I’m no chirurgeon, but even I know that layering scars on top of scars only makes things worse.”  
“That’s where the theory comes in,” she explained. “I can’t explain it in terms you’d understand, but I believe it is theoretically possible to revert the wound to its original state. No organic healing, no scarring, nothing but a clean wound. It’s just, well,” she hesitated, unwilling to finish the sentence.  
“It’s just what?”  
“It’s probably going to be excruciatingly painful. Sorry.”  
He shook his head, raising both hands to run through his hair as he turned away from her, ignoring the pull in his side. He’d always thought Guild Arcanists were odd. He’d been wrong. They were absolutely insane.  
“It was just an idea,” she said, her voice softer. “I’m not going to make you do it.”  
“Good,” he said, too quickly, regretting the rough tone instantly. “Sorry. I know you’re trying to help. Just, no. Thank you, but no.”  
“Everything alright over here?” Skrakriskthar’s booming voice came from behind them. C’loren turned, dropping his arms to his sides at the sight of the Roegadyn. He was only half-dressed, with his coat hanging open over his shirt and no boots on. “There was shouting,” — had they been shouting? — “and I heard something about putting an axe in someone. Let’s not do anything hasty, now.”  
“No,” C’loren said, shaking his head. “Nobody’s got an axe, sorry.”  
“The axe was only theoretical,” Danelle added, her voice quiet as she made the weak joke.  
“Good,” Skrakriskthar said, a confused frown crossing his face. “At least, I think that’s good.”  
“It’s good,” C’loren said, ready to say more, but the sudden look Skrakriskthar was giving him — eyes wide, an excited grin spreading — made him shut it quickly.  
“Well aren’t you just a little barrel full of surprises all wrapped up with a pair of ears and a furry tail. When were you going to tell me you ran with the Thorns?”  
“I, er, wasn’t. Going to, I mean.” C’loren stammered, caught off guard. How had Skrakriskthar even known? Ah, right. He reflexively covered the tattoo on his shoulder with his other hand. He’d forgotten that was there. It must have caught the Roegadyn’s eye as he’d turned towards him.  
“Didn’t know they even let anyone in who wasn’t Roegadyn.”  
“Oh, they do,” C’loren said. The Rosethorn Company was led by and primarily comprised of axe-wielding Roegadyns, but it wasn’t unheard of for them to take members of other races. There had been an Elezen in the company when C’loren had joined up, though he’d retired soon after. Another long-term member had been a Midlander Hyur, though he didn’t know if she was still around or not. She had been when he’d left. Skrakriskthar was correct that it was mostly Roegadyns, though.  
“You’re not all Thorns, are you? Didn’t know they let anyone in who used anything but an axe.”  
“They don’t.” At least, they didn’t when he’d left. Hence the leaving. “And we’re not all—it’s just me. I moved on a few years back.”  
“Kicked you out, did they?” Skrakriskthar’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, but C’loren couldn’t help but laugh at the idea. He wouldn’t still be walking around with a company tattoo on his arm if he’d been thrown out. The fact that Skrakriskthar thought it was even a possibility told C’loren that the Roegadyn didn’t know as much as he thought he did about how the Rosethorn Company operated. “Something funny?”  
“No,” C’loren said. “Well, yes. But only to me. No, I wasn’t kicked out. I had an injury,” he explained, tapping his side. “And like you said, they don’t have work for anyone who can’t swing an axe. So, here I am.”  
“Ah,” Skrakriskthar said. “Sorry to hear that.”  
C’loren shrugged. “It’s in the past. It’s better to focus on the future.”  
“Well said,” Skrakrisktar replied with a nod. “Anyway, I’d best be finishing getting ready to march. Just came over here to make sure no one was getting killed. Everything seems alright, so I’ll be back on my way.”  
C’loren raised a hand in farewell, turning back to Danelle as the Roegadyn made his way back towards the camp. She’d been quiet the whole time the other two had been talking, which meant she’d been thinking. “What’s on your mind?”  
“Nothing pressing. You know, I’d been wondering about that.”  
“The tattoo?” At her nod, he tilted his head to the side. “Why didn’t you just ask?”  
“I was afraid I wouldn’t like the answer. But it makes sense. I’m glad you weren’t thrown out for some grievous offense.” She fell silent for a moment, before speaking again. “As far as mercenary companies go, you could do far worse.”  
“They’re good people,” he agreed. “Better than who I ran with before.”  
“Who was that?” Her gaze was sharp as she looked to him. He shook his head. That wasn’t a conversation he was ready to have this morning. Or ever.  
“Don’t ask. Believe me, you really don’t want to know.” He sighed, wiping another trickle of sweat from the side of his face. “We should go back, as well. We still need to break our camp and eat something before the march is called. At least it’s not far now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing much really happens here, but character backstory is always wonderful.
> 
> Figuring out how long it took to get from Rhalgr's Reach to Vesper Bay was easy. It's the trip to Kugane that's causing me trouble. Distances and travel speed are so hard!


	10. The Dawn Serpent

The salty scent of the ocean was heavy in the air as Danelle extracted herself from the throng of Maelstrom soldiers. Clad once more in her formal jacket — Gods it was sweltering, but appearances mattered — she strode purposefully across Vesper Bay’s main harbor square. Cloudkin screamed overhead as she passed under the natural stone formation that crossed over the busy port town, her boot heels clicking against the precisely-cut stone masonry pattern that covered the ground. Crowds pushed past each other as merchants shouted their wares from inside the many colorful tents that lined the square, but what she had come to purchase couldn’t be found at any of these stalls. She would have to go down to the docks themselves to find somebody who could provide her with what she sought.  
“Hey!”  
She turned at the shout from behind her. C’loren and Chris — who was the one who had shouted, of course — were jogging to catch her, Rororiku following behind as quickly as his little legs could manage.  
“I thought you’d be saying your goodbyes,” Danelle said as the others got within speaking distance.  
“Got nobody to say goodbye to,” Chris replied with a shrug, then motioned with her thumb towards C’loren. “Pretty sure he just wanted out of there before that Roegadyn decided to dedicate the meal in his honor or something.”  
C’loren’s eyes darted to Chris in annoyance, but he otherwise ignored the comment, looking to Danelle. “They were fair traveling companions. I’ve had worse. But I’m ready for the next part.”  
“That’s what I was on my way to do,” she said. “Do we really need all four of us to go down to the docks and book passage on a ship?”  
“Probably not,” Rororiku said, having finally caught up, “but here we are, regardless.”  
That statement almost perfectly summarized her feelings on the matter. Even when it wasn’t necessary, here they all were. Well, there wasn’t much she could do about it, and passage wouldn’t book itself. She beckoned over her shoulder, turning to resume her walk. “Come along, then.”  
As she walked, C’loren caught up to match pace beside her. “Have you been here before?” he asked.  
She nodded. “Official guild business brought me across the Rhotano Sea often. It’s a pleasant port, better than many. What about yourself?”  
“I’ve sailed in the area, in the open sea as well as along the coast, but never docked in port. Ports are expensive. Of course you wouldn’t have noticed that, on the Guild’s dime.”  
It was true that the Guild paid her expenses, but it was unfair to assume that she was ignorant of the costs because of that. Did he not understand what an expense account was, and the process by which one was written up? If you failed to pay attention to what was leaving your purse, you’d be hauled before the Guildmaster for improper allocation of Guild funds before you’d even had the chance to relax into a nice, warm bath. She opened her mouth to tell him so, but he spoke again before she could get any words out.  
“Since you’ve been here before, you know where we’re going, right? I’m only following you.”  
“The port offices are that way,” she said, pointing above the throngs of people filling the square to a great crimson anchor visible in the distance, mounted high atop a masonry arch by thick metal straps. “The offices are directly below the insignia.”  
“Makes sense,” C’loren nodded. “A town like this which gets a lot of travelers needs clear signs to help them find their way around. And it doesn’t get much more obvious than that.”  
As they approached the archway, Danelle looked back to the others, Chris and Rororiku, as they followed just a few steps behind. “Let me do the talking.”  
“Are you sure?” C’loren asked, one ear twitching as he spoke. “Last time you didn’t really get anywhere. You just got her all clammed up. I can do it, I know how to book passage on a ship.”  
“Yeah, and remember that time you got a hammer pitched at your head?” Chris spoke up, nudging C’loren’s shoulder where the hammer had actually made contact. “Let her do her thing. If she needs us, we’re here, yeah?”  
C’loren nodded. “You’re right. Sorry,” he said to Danelle, who gave him a small smile.  
“No offense taken. You’re correct that my methods didn’t work on M’treya. This time, however, they will. I know how to deal with port authorities.”

\- - -

Chris sat on the corner of a stone planter, wishing there was a more sheltered place to wait. Unfortunately, the single decorative palm planted here cast little shade. Rororiku had made himself comfortable on the grassy soil behind her, sitting back against the slender trunk, while C’loren crouched on the ground just out of reach, intently watching the proceedings at the open-air port authority office.  
The main counter was staffed by a lady Lalafell, a practical hat shading her face from the sun. Despite the personal shade, and the occasional light sea breeze, her cheeks were flushed. Twin dark braids hung down to either side of her face, bouncing as she nodded emphatically, accompanying broad hand gestures, to punctuate each point she made.  
“I’m so sorry,” she was saying, “but every ship bound for Kugane is already full up! We simply can’t accommodate any more passengers at this time, but if you would add your party to the bottom of the queue, we’ll assign you a spot as quickly as possible.”  
She reached below the counter and pulled out a rolled document, which she unfurled with a flick of her wrist. Even with the top held steady in her hand, the bottom of the parchment flowed all the way across the counter and down the other side, nearly to the stone floor.  
“That’s unacceptable,” Danelle said, her tone matter of fact. How could she stay so calm? If that had been Chris up there, she’d be asking a whole other set of questions. Starting with questioning the Lalafell’s sanity, and quickly proceeding into how there was no way in all the hells she was going to add her name to the bottom of that monstrosity.  
“Well, I’m sorry, but that’s just the way it is!” The last word was delivered in a drawn out two-part tone, almost singsong, and accompanied by a dramatic shrug. As a rule, Chris didn’t punch Lalafells, but sometimes she really, really wanted to. This was shaping up to be one of those times.  
“Well it’s unacceptable.” Danelle stood firm, her posture backing up the attitude perfectly. Everything from the firm placement of her boots on the ground to the stiff ruffles adorning her cuffs and collar to that fancy coat — somehow, still spotless white — and even her hair, not a strand out of place. Damn, how did she look so good after more than a week on the road? She hadn’t even spent any time at the baths yet. “I speak for a party of four, with two chocobos as live cargo. We’re willing to pay good gil and possess skills, mercenary and otherwise, for barter. Surely an arrangement could be made.”  
“Tsk, tsk!” the Lalafell tutted, waving a finger in front of Danelle’s face before jabbing it at the list once more. “I will ask that you please respect your fellow travelers and join the queue. No line skipping allowed!”  
“Just bribe her,” C’loren muttered under his breath, barely loud enough for Chris to hear. That was a typical reaction from someone who didn’t know many Lalafells. This particular brand of cheerful loyalty was not only unique to that race, at least as far as Chris knew, but also completely immune to anything underhanded, like bribery. She knew any attempts to slip this clerk some coin would just end with nobody getting on a ship at all. Ever. Because they’d be locked up in some jail by a guard who couldn’t resist the distress of an adorable little Lalafell maiden.  
“Passengers registered directly with the ship captains skip the queue, correct?”  
“That’s correct!”  
“Perfect. I will take it up with the captains themselves, then.” Danelle turned to go down to the docks, but the clerk spoke again, shaking her head so hard her dark hair spread out like a fan behind her.  
“No, you may not! That is not allowed once the initial manifests have been submitted for approval by the port authority! Madam, I must ask that you cease your attempts to bypass our queue, and wait your turn like everybody else.”  
Alright, so she didn’t punch Lalafells. Her personal code didn’t say anything about dangling them upside-down off a seaside cliff though, did they? Had she taken any oaths that forbade that behavior? Her eyes narrowed as she considered the possibility. She supposed she would be protecting the clerk, in that she would be holding on very tightly, protecting her from falling into the sea. No, that would never fly. Just imagining the look of disapproval on Germund’s face made her heart sink. Not that she hadn’t already earned that look and then some. What was one more misstep, when she’d already run a malm in the wrong direction?  
“Stop thinking of creative ways to get back at the clerk without hitting her,” Rororiku whispered, nudging her shoulder. She jumped a little, not having heard him come up behind her.  
“I’m not,” she said, matching her volume to his own. He’d gotten to know her a little too well over the course of the long march from Gyr Abania to the western coast of Thanalan.  
“You’re lying. You had that look on your face. I know that look.”  
“I have a look on my face that says I’m thinking about punching a Lalafell?”  
“Well, no,” he admitted. “It’s more general, when you get really impatient at someone. It just so happens this time it’s a Lalafell.”  
“Okay, I admit it. I was thinking about that, before. But then I was thinking about something else.” She sighed quietly, clenching her hands into fists where they rested atop her knees.  
“What?” The concern in his voice was sweet. She really didn’t want to get into it now, though. Or ever. Let’s go with ever.  
“Someone I knew,” she said vaguely. “It doesn’t matter now. I’m never going to have to speak to him again, Gods willing.”  
“Ah, a failed romance?”  
“Gods no!” Her face twisted in revulsion. He was — had been — like a father to her! The very idea of being his lover made her stomach turn. “My mentor, okay? I really don’t want to talk about it, so can we not?”  
“Oh, I apologize.” He did sound sorry. That was something, at least. With any luck he’d never bring the subject up again. Did they have a tavern, here? She assumed they must. If — when, by the looks of it — passage fell through, she hoped Danelle would agree to let them visit. Unfortunately, the Elezen was the only one of them with any kind of extra spending money at the moment, so she was the final say on any recreational activities. And she was such a miser about it, too. There wasn’t even any point in just having one drink, was there? The idea was to drink enough that you didn’t care it was swill that tasted like it had been dredged from the bottom of the most stagnant oasis in all of Thanalan. How could you forget that if you only had just the one?  
“—don’t know how to make it any clearer! The proper procedures must be followed! I am beholden by law to the treaties of maritime trade, surely you must understand.” the clerk was saying, as Chris returned her attention to the matter at hand. Gods, they were still arguing? Was Danelle’s strategy to simply dig her heels in and refuse to bend even one ilm? She was stubborn, true, but Chris wasn’t sure that it would be enough. She saw Danelle reach inside her coat, pulling a folded document out of an inner pocket, and place it on the counter before her.  
“Under the authority of acting Guildmaster Thubyrgeim and with the express backing of Admiral Merlwyb Bloefhiswyn herself I demand you allow me and my party passage on the swiftest ship departing for Kugane. Failure to comply with this request would be obstruction of official Arcanist Guild business, subject to all appropriate penalties under the treaties of maritime trade. Am I clear?”  
C’loren let out a low whistle, eyebrows rising, clearly impressed by how those words had been rattled off. Chris wasn’t even sure what they all meant, at least not put together like that, but she had to admit they did sound intimidating. The clerk seemed to think so, too, nearly dropping the list in her haste to roll it back up.  
“Madam Arcanist! I had no idea. I am truly sorry, you should have said something earlier! I will add you to the manifest of the next ship to leave, likely this evening.”  
“That is not what I asked for,” Danelle said, returning the document to her pocket. That sure sounded like what she’d asked for, to Chris at least. “I said your swiftest ship, not the next ship. Would you place us in a heavy-laden craft that barely makes five knots under an ideal tailwind?” Oh, that made sense. Boats were way more complicated than chocobos.  
“No, of course not! I beg your lady’s pardon.” The clerk scrambled through her papers and charts, muttering to herself as she looked over the possibilities. “The Dawn Serpent, leaves at half-past tenth bell tomorrow morning. She doesn’t have much room for passengers, so I must warn you that you won’t be traveling comfortably.”  
“It doesn’t matter, if she truly is the fastest ship.” Really? No questions asked about what exactly that meant? Would they even have beds? Would they be sleeping snuggled up next to a cargo of angry aldgoats? “Will her captain take us?”  
“With an Arcanist’s Guild writ? He’d better! I’ll prepare your passage orders, he can’t argue against those.”  
A swift bit of scribbling later, Danelle stepped away from the counter, parchment in hand. As she approached the rest of the group, C’loren stood, running a hand through his hair.  
“Why do you have to be a girl?” he said to her. She raised an eyebrow in return.  
“Excuse me?” Danelle sounded confused. Chris wasn’t exactly following the question, either.  
“With the, you know, right there. All confident, and the words, and she just did exactly what you said, and, well, damn.” Chris heard Rororiku stifle a chuckle. This made a lot more sense now. Fighting down a laugh herself, she decided to clarify matters.  
“What he’s saying is,” she said, failing to keep her amusement entirely out of her voice, “if you had something else in the trousers department, he’d be jumping your bones right about now.”  
“Oh!” Pink spread across Danelle’s cheeks. She’d made the Elezen blush, score! Well, if anyone was keeping track of score, that is. “Well, that’s flattering. Surely you’ve met eligible and compatible men who share the same qualities.”  
“Uh, not really, no.” C’loren shook his head. His skin was dark enough that Chris couldn’t tell if he was blushing or not. That’s a shame. Half the fun of a good tease was getting to watch their reactions. “That whole bit was a really awkward thing to say, I’m sorry. Just forget I said it.”  
“It’s quite all right! It was a perfectly valid statement to make. I’ll take it as a compliment.”  
“I never thought I’d actually appreciate a targeted attack by a Guild Arcanist,” C’loren said, chuckling a little.  
“It wasn’t an attack,” Danelle protested. “It was a negotiation.”  
“No,” he said. “That thing you did just now? That was an attack. Negotiations are a little more give and take. You circled your enemy, let her back herself into a corner, then dove in for the kill.” A pointed hand slapped into his opposite palm as he illustrated the strategy with hand motions.  
“Why not just go directly for the kill in the first place, instead of wasting all that time talking?” Chris shifted position on the low stone wall, leaning forward as she spoke.  
“It wasn’t wasted time,” Danelle said, answering the question before C’loren could speak. “If I’d shown my hand at the start, she would have satisfied only the bare minimum requirements of the writ. As it was, I allowed her to provide reason for offense before revealing the full facts of the matter. Consequently, she felt the need to make amends, and we were offered a significantly better deal than we otherwise would have achieved.”  
“And that,” C’loren said, pointing to Danelle, “is what happens when you take a girl out of Ul’Dah and train her up in the Arcanist’s Guild. Terrifying. Thank the Gods there’s only one of her, I don’t think Hydaelyn could handle another.”  
“I thought you were from Coerthas,” Rororiku asked, stepping forward to stand on the raised corner of the stone wall.  
“I am, originally. I lived there before,” Danelle waved her hand quickly, as if sweeping something away. “Then I lived in Ul’Dah. I traveled to Limsa Lominsa to join the Arcanist Guild when I was sixteen, so I lived in Ul’Dah for about nine years.”  
“Sixteen?” Rororiku said. “That’s young.”  
“Not really,” Chris said, remembering her own introduction to the Bloodsands at the age of twelve. She hadn’t fought of course, not for a few years, but she’d been expected to pull her weight in chores and training from the very first day she’d set foot in the Coliseum.  
“I was only fourteen when I left home,” C’loren said with a shrug. “There was better coin out on the sea than scrounging odd jobs back on land. It wasn’t a difficult choice to make, in the situation.”  
“When I was fourteen and sixteen I wasn’t even thinking of leaving home!” Rororiku said, shaking his head. “I can’t imagine what it must have been like.”  
“It wasn’t so bad,” C’loren said. “When you’re with a crew, it’s like they’re family of sorts. Yeah, I missed Ma, but it wasn’t as if I was really off on my own. Besides, going home for visits is enough.”  
“He sleeps with a quilt his mother made him, every night.” Danelle’s eyes lit up as she took revenge for his earlier joke, appearing to appreciate the tortured look C’loren shot her.  
“Aww,” escaped Chris’s lips as she tried and failed to hide a smile. That was actually really adorable. She thought she might know the one too, a blanket that was more patches than patchwork. Sometimes he’d wrapped up in it by the fire on chill mornings, before they’d crossed into the desert.  
“As amusing as this is,” C’loren said, not sounding amused at all, “we still need to go talk to the ship’s captain.”  
“Right you are,” Rororiku nodded, clambering down from the low stone wall. “Let’s not waste time teasing this poor man. We have more important matters that need attending to.”

\- - -

C’loren closed his eyes, raising his face to catch the warm salt breeze. It wasn’t the same as home, not really, but it was close enough to put him at ease. Down here on the docks, what little breeze there was blew freely, away from the buildings and tents of the port town itself. It was the next best thing to being out on the waves.  
“Are you coming?” He heard Chris call and opened his eyes, looking towards her voice. When did they get so far down the dock? He nodded, jogging down the wooden planks to meet them.  
“Sorry,” he said as he caught up. “Is this it, then?”  
The ship they’d stopped in front of wasn’t the largest, or the broadest. She was long and sleek, built for speed rather than strength. His eyes slid along the hull of the ship, taking note of its repair and defenses. She had few scars, all well-mended, the sign of a careful captain. Her defenses were few in number, which was mildly concerning, but looked to be solidly constructed. He wouldn’t be able to tell exactly how good they were without climbing up on deck and examining them with his own two hands, but from down here the set of cannons appeared as well-made as any he’d ever seen on a ship. A few deckhands clambered about, performing port work and moving cargo from the deck towards the hold where it would be stowed for the voyage.  
“It’s golden!” Chris said from beside him, her words tinged with awe. For a moment he didn’t see what she was talking about, then he noticed the colors of the ship. The hull had been left its natural color, but the sails and trim were a deep gold — painted, he reckoned, rather than made of actual precious metals — and the serpent figurehead mounted on the bow had emerald eyes. Now those looked to be real stones, though whether they were actually precious emeralds or a cheap imitation he couldn’t tell.  
“The aesthetics of the ship aren’t as important as her function,” Danelle said, looking to C’loren, who nodded once back to her. He was comfortable boarding this ship. She seemed seaworthy enough. He approved. “Very well, then. Let’s go meet this Captain. Captain, uh,” She consulted the parchment the clerk had given her, searching for the captain’s name, but was interrupted by a warm voice before she could find it.  
“Captain Brewster. Edbert Brewster, at your service.” The ship’s captain stood at the top of the gangplank, a middle-aged Midlander Hyur with a scruffy beard and short brown hair streaked with gray. His face was well-lined, but kind. His gray eyes, however, were the wary eyes of a man who had seen far too many tricks pulled on him in his time. “What can I do for you?”  
“Danelle Arteleur,” she introduced herself with a short bow. “Arcanist Guild. We require passage aboard your ship. You’ll find our papers are in order,” she added as he opened his mouth to protest, offering both the writ and the papers the clerk had drawn up for them. He walked down the gangplank, a slight limp favoring his right leg, and took the papers from her, looking them over.  
“This might be the vaguest Guild writ I’ve ever set eyes on,” he said finally, finishing his study of the papers. “Normally there’s a little more to go on.”  
“My mission is of relevance only to the Guild itself,” she replied. “It was not necessary to elaborate upon the details.  
“Of course, none of my business. I shouldn’t have commented.” He folded the papers back together, offering them back to Danelle, who took them. “Well, you’re correct that it’s all in order, but I’ll be honest with you. I’ve never handled live cargo, but that’s the least of my concerns. The Dawn Serpent isn’t a passenger ship, is the thing. You’ll have swift passage, but it won’t be comfortable. The only spot we have for you to sleep is in the hold, and you’ll be expected to aid in our defense if we encounter trouble.”  
“Do you expect trouble?” Danelle asked, raising one eyebrow.  
“Not specifically, no,” the captain said. “But I’ve been sailing my whole life, and I know what’s out there. I also know what my ship is capable of. We’ll run if we can, and she’s damned good at it if I do say so myself, but I sail with a light crew. Each and every one of my hands is required to carry their own weight if it comes to a fight, and that includes passengers. Is that going to be a problem?”  
“No,” Danelle said. “It won’t be.”  
“Excellent. I look forward to traveling with you, Arcanist Arteleur.” He extended his hand which she took, sealing the deal with a firm, quick handshake. “Now, we leave tomorrow promptly at the—” the rest of his words were lost as a tremendous bang came from the starboard side of the ship. The captain turned and hurried back up the gangplank, his limp more pronounced at speed, towards the plume of smoke dissipating into the air. Without waiting for an invitation, C’loren followed, edging to the side to see around the captain.  
The victim was one of the cannons he’d been admiring just minutes before. A deckhand — he seemed fine, if badly shaken — was sprawled to the side, being tended to by another member of the crew. As he approached the device, he saw the problem was the butt end. The breech was missing, blown straight off its hinges, which remained as only twisted metal scrap.  
“I told you,” he heard Rororiku mutter behind him, but he ignored the Lalafell. All his talk of a family curse was just silly, there was no such thing. All this was, was a broken cannon. It happened, from time to time.  
The captain conferred with the crew that had gathered around the broken cannon, then turned, eyes widening in surprise as he saw that he’d been followed onto the deck. “Well, as you can see, we’ve had a bit of a setback. It seems we won’t be leaving in the morning after all.”  
“It’s just one cannon!” Chris said, the disbelief plain in her voice.  
“One cannon of only four,” Captain Brewster said, folding his arms as he looked at her. “I won’t sail without a full complement, it’s just not safe. That hinge could be repaired in time, the smith in port owes me a favor. But without that breech, I can’t shoot a damned thing. It’ll take time to cast a new one.”  
“Where did it go?” C’loren asked. A big old thing like that didn’t just vanish, it had to have landed somewhere.  
The captain appeared unsure, looking to the deckhand, who pointed back towards the dock. “Went that way. I felt it go right past my head, close enough to feel the wind off it.”  
“Did it go far?” C’loren asked the deckhand, who shook his head, seeming uncertain. “Nevermind,” he said, turning, and walked to the port rail of the ship. There was a small crowd gathering upon the docks, concerned and curious alike, but no alarm of the sort that would be generated by a heavy metal object hitting the dock. It couldn’t have had the speed to clear the wall back up to the rest of the port town, so if it wasn’t on the docks, that left only one possibility.  
“I heard something splash into the harbor,” Danelle said, coming up beside him. C’loren nodded.  
“It must have. There’s only one thing to do, then.” He stripped off his shirt, pausing as she raised an eyebrow at him. “What? You want to leave tomorrow, right? I’m a fair diver. Used to make sport out of going down for pearls. I never won, true, but I never came in last either.”  
As she didn’t protest further, he finished stripping down to just his breeches, kicking his boots off last. Taking a deep breath, he climbed atop the rail and dove, arcing through the air into the waters of the Vesper Bay harbor. The sea was warm at first, but only for a moment, before he descended through the sun-warmed layer into the cool ocean waters below. He squinted through the cloudy waters, salt stinging his eyes as he searched for the dark metal of the cannon’s breech. Nothing was in the sand where he was, but he was running out of air. He kicked off the harbor floor, sand billowing up around him as he swam up towards the surface.  
He sucked in fresh air as he burst from the surface of the water. Seeing Danelle’s questioning look, he shook his head once before looking around. If he moved aft just a little, then pushed off the hull at an angle, that should give enough momentum to reach the floor once more. He took another deep breath and ducked beneath the surface, propelling himself downward with a two-legged kick. There, what was that? That thing, half-buried in the sand by the foundation of the dock? He swam over, pulled it from the sand — heavy! — and kicked off as before, clutching the metal object to his chest with one arm. It was a struggle to reach the surface this time, one-armed and carrying extra weight. The last of his bubbles were streaming from his nose and mouth as he breached the sea’s surface, gasping in air.  
A rope ladder tumbled down and he grabbed it, fumbling with his feet to secure the bottom end as he pulled himself up, water streaming down his body as he climbed up towards the deck. As he reached the rail, he threw the heavy object over, hauling his own body up onto the deck of the ship as the metal thing he’d retrieved clattered to a stop.  
“Is that your breech?” he asked the captain, still a little breathless from the exertion of the dive.  
“I believe it might be,” Captain Brewster replied, hefting the breech up and comparing it with the cannon. “Looks to fit. You’ve saved us days wasted in port, thank you.”  
“Don’t thank me,” he half-muttered, fumbling for his clothes. “It’s fine. Least I could do. I just really want to get to Doma.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nobody would complain if somebody way more talented than me did some fanart of that last bit there. The part with the diving. And the half-naked C'loren. Just saying. ♥_♥


	11. Midnight At Sea

Flames burned low in the lamps mounted upon the walls of the chamber, shadows filling the room. Chrissel knelt, armor gleaming, both hands upon the hilt of the sword before her, its tip held steady against the stone floor. A Midlander Hyur stood before her, his tanned face lined with age. He wore a white tunic over blue plate mail, with a snow-white cape so long it nearly dragged upon the ground. One hand was on the hilt of his sheathed sword as he looked down to the kneeling woman, his dark eyes filled with emotion.  
“—to protect and stand for all in need, those who have little power of their own most of all. This oath I swear on my life,” she said, her lips forming the familiar words by rote, “Gods be my witness.”  
As she finished speaking the words of her oath, her eyes fell to the floor. Metal scraped as the man’s sword was pulled from its sheathe, then a light touch came upon each of her shoulders as he touched her with the blade.  
“Rise, Chrissel Bladestorm, Paladin of Ul’Dah.”  
But she didn’t rise. She was suddenly heavy, as if her armor weighed a thousand tonzes. The weight pressed down on her, preventing her from rising, even as she tried with all her strength to heed Germund Hearn’s command. She had to stand. This was what came next.  
“I said rise, Paladin.”  
She gritted her teeth, eyes narrowing in effort as she tried to stand. She pushed the tip of the blade against the floor, metal against stone, in a desperate attempt to use the weapon for leverage. The blade skittered despite her attempts to hold it steady, tracing a thin path through the layer of sawdust covering the flagstones. Blood dripped down the blade — no, it flowed, long rivulets streaming down the steel — staining the dust crimson and pooling on the floor below. As she tried to stand one final time, the blade shattered beneath her hands, a hundred shards scattering in every direction. She fell forward, both hands landing hard against the stone, blood and dust marring the gleam of her gauntlets.  
The crowd roared overhead, roaring flames banishing the shadows. She stumbled to her feet, weaponless, but ready to fight. They wouldn’t catch her on the ground. That was how you died, here. But there was nobody to fight. They were already dead. Baldric. Kiaran. Susunili. Elisia. Rororiku. The pain struck deep in her chest as she took in the sight of the crumpled corpses, blood coloring the dust beneath them. There was a sixth, a red stain blossoming across his snow-white cloak even as she stumbled over, falling to her knees next to his body.  
“Germund” she tried to say, the word coming out as barely a croak. The roar of magitek came again, her hands scrabbling against pale dirt as she tried to free him from beneath the metal monstrosity that held him prone. She saw his chest rise laboriously, then fall. He was still alive. She could still save him. She just had to get this bloody thing off of him!  
His eyelids fluttered as she strained against the black metal of the war machine. His lips moved, but she couldn’t hear the words.  
“What?” she said, forcing the words out against the overpowering silence.  
“You,” he said, as she strained to catch the words. “You swore an oath.”  
Tears burned down her cheeks as his expression went slack, the light leaving his eyes. She tried to scream, but couldn’t make a sound, even as she pounded her palms, the once-pristine metal now streaked with bloody dirt, against the magitek machine. She couldn’t do anything. She should have. Should have stopped it. Should have done something. Anything.  
She sucked in air once again, but stopped at the sound of her gasping breath, letting it out in a muffled sob rather than a scream. The boat rocked beneath her, tucked away between crates of cargo. She heard the creak of timber, and smelled the delicate scents of the goods packed away in the hold, along with the not-so-delicate scent of chocobos. Her heart pounded, tears soaking her neck and hair as they rolled down the sides of her face, but she forced herself to breathe, slowly, in and out. She was here. On board The Dawn Serpent. Crossing the ocean. On her way to Doma. Rororiku wasn’t dead, he was right here. He was, wasn’t he?  
Panic clawed at her chest as she sat up, crawling around the crate to check. The Lalafell’s chest rose and fell steadily as he slept, tucked under a light blanket. Safe, sound and peaceful. Gods. She couldn’t stay down here. She fumbled with her boots, but the laces eluded her trembling hands. Frustrated, she shoved them away, going barefoot up the open-backed stairs to the deck above.  
The night was clear and the moon full, illuminating the boat’s deck enough that she wouldn’t fall. Luckily, the sea was calm tonight, so she was able to stumble past some large crates to the boat’s rail. Grasping it with both hand, she leaned over the side as her stomach twisted from the harrowing nightmare. As she breathed in the cool night air, the sensations calmed along with her mind, leaving only the tears still running down her face. She sniffed, wiping some of the wet away with the sleeve of her tunic, though more was already replacing it.  
“Did something happen?”  
Chris whirled at the soft question, eyes wide. On her hurried approach to the boat’s rail, she hadn’t seen Danelle sitting, concealed by the crates. A small lantern sat next to her, illuminating a small pile of parchment and books. Moonlight glinted off the lenses of her glasses as she watched, her expression unreadable. That had been compassion in her voice, though. Or something like it.  
“No,” Chris forced the word out, shaking her head. “Nightmare. That’s all.”  
Danelle adjusted her glasses, ink on the end of her quill glimmering in the dim light. “Are you all right?”  
“No,” Chris said honestly. She wasn’t all right. Wouldn’t be, even after the pain of the nightmare faded. Which it would. Until the wound was opened fresh again some other night. “What are you doing out here?” she changed the subject, the words coming easier now that she was talking about something else.  
“Making calculations.”  
“At this time of night?” Chris asked, frowning. “Why aren’t you asleep?”  
“Why aren’t you?” That was a fair point. Chris shrugged, but Danelle continued. “C’loren woke me up when he tripped over my foot. I couldn’t fall back asleep, so I came up here to work until I was tired.”  
“He’s up, too? Where is he?” The deck was deserted, except for them. She supposed a member of the crew was on watch up above, but there was no sign of C’loren.  
“I don’t know,” Danelle said, scooting over and patting the crate beside her. Chris sat, her back against the large cargo crate. It felt much safer than standing by the rail. It had been more than a fortnight on the open waters, and she knew the seas were calm, and that boats didn’t just throw people off. They weren’t angry chocobos, after all. But she couldn’t shake the fear that she’d somehow go flying straight into the water, if she lingered too close to the edge. Of course, since she couldn’t swim, she’d drown if that happened. So, sitting down was safer.  
“Do you truly find me so intolerable?”  
Chris blinked as Danelle asked the question, looking over to the other woman, who was frowning, though looking more hurt than angry. “No, I—what?” Chris stammered, thrown by the sudden question.  
“You’re sitting about as far away from me as possible, while still being seated upon the same crate. Did I offend you that much?”  
Oh. She supposed she was. It was just confusing, was all. Normally they never even spoke, and if they did it was often in conflict. Being asked to join her on deck like this was just confusing. “I thought I’d offended you,” she eventually said, frowning in deep confusion. “You’re always complaining about what I do. I’m moving too quickly, I’m not being careful enough, I’m too drunk—”  
“Only out of concern. And you were too drunk, on multiple occasions.”  
“Yeah, well, it beats the bloody nightmares, doesn’t it?” The angry words burst out of her, fierce in tone even though she still spoke quietly. Turning away, she balled her hands into hard fists, nails cutting into the flesh at the base of her hands, and shook her head. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”  
After a long moment of silence, Danelle spoke again. “I’m sorry, too. I didn’t know that was why.”  
“Well it’s not like I go around explaining it to everyone,” Chris said. “And I’m not going to start, either. I don’t need to explain myself to everyone I meet. I don’t want to keep talking about it. I just want to forget it.” Gods, she was tearing up again. This was so stupid. “And there’s nothing to drink worth mentioning on this whole damned boat. I thought sailors were supposed to be drunk all the time.”  
“An unfortunate misconception,” Danelle said. “If they were drunk all the time, as you put it, how could they sail the boat without capsizing it? Nothing would ever reach port, except by sheer luck or the grace of the Gods themselves.”  
“See, that’s it, right there.”  
“What?” Danelle sounded confused, and Chris turned to face her, wiping at a wayward tear that had rolled down her cheek.  
“Stop being smart at me! Why can’t I just have my drunk sailors? You don’t have to be right all the time, about everything. I try to ignore it, but it wears after a while, and eventually I just can’t take it anymore!”  
Danelle closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them, nodding. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll try to stop doing that.”  
“Thank you,” Chris said, her voice weak, and jammed the heels of her hands into her eyes. Stupid tears.  
“I wish I could help. With what’s bothering you, I mean.”  
“I wish anyone could,” Chris said. “I’m the problem, though. I’m supposed to help people, to keep them safe. But I just end up hurting them. I can wave a shield around all I want, but that doesn’t mean I’m good enough to actually protect anybody.”  
Danelle didn’t reply, just sat on the other side of the crate, watching her. Chris knew she should stop talking, that she was rambling, but the words were bubbling up from inside, a torrent that she found herself powerless to stop.  
“They just don’t teach you how,” she continued. “They teach you to use a sword, sure, and a shield. Then they pull you out of there and tell you all that’s wrong, here’s how you really do it. And they teach you all the fancy tricks, how to use your shield to stop damned near anything. Then they make you take an oath. But they don’t tell you how to keep it. Somehow you’re just supposed to know how it works, like magic. And it wouldn’t even be so bad if nobody could do it right, but I’m the only one who keeps buggering it up.”  
“What’s the oath?” Danelle asked, slipping the question in as Chris paused for breath.  
“Depends,” she replied, pulling her legs up so she sat leaning against the crate with her right side, legs curled up, eyes fixed on Danelle. “You pick your own. Something that feels right to devote yourself to, entirely. Gods, I’m fouling that up right now. I’m not doing bloody anything on this boat.” She sighed. Danelle wasn’t going to take that for an answer. “My oath, well, what I said was, ‘I swear to protect and stand for all in need, those who have little power of their own most of all.’ And I meant it. I still do. I’m just shite at it.”  
She closed her eyes, not caring that the rough edge of the crate dug into the side of her head. After a long moment of silence, broken only by the light slap of the waves against the boat’s side, Danelle replied.  
“That’s not the normal oath, is it? I thought Paladins swore something regarding the defense of the Sultana.”  
“I’m not Sultansworn,” Chris said, opening her eyes again. Germund was, but not all of the Paladins he’d trained had taken that path. “As a free Paladin, I got to choose my own oath. Something that has meaning to me.” Something that resonated with her soul, had been Germund’s words.  
“Protecting all in need is an incredibly difficult oath to keep.” Danelle didn’t need to say that again. “I don’t envy you that task. Especially after having enlisted.”  
Joining the Immortal Flames had been a terrible idea. She’d had some romantic notions of what it would be like, but the reality was just one frustrating situation after another. Her orders had rarely allowed her room to fulfill her oaths, even after clawing her way up to a command. And everyone knew how it had ended.  
“There’s a process to strip a Paladin of their title, if they’ve violated their oaths. If I ever show my face in Ul’Dah again, I expect it’ll be used on me. I swore one oath, just the one, and I couldn’t even manage that. It just all went to shite. Would have been better off in the end if I’d just kept my head down and followed orders.”  
“Nonsense,” Danelle said, her tone more sympathetic than Chris had ever heard it. “If anything, your actions were even more justified in light of the oath you’d sworn. You couldn’t have known what the outcome of the situation would be. Given the limited information you possessed, you made the best choice in accordance with your own convictions.” Their eyes met, and Danelle must have seen the confusion in Chris’s gaze, because she quickly clarified. “I don’t blame you, nor should anyone who isn’t bound by rank.”  
“Thanks, I guess.” Her gaze fell down to her lap, where her hands clenched together. “Doesn’t really matter, though. Whatever you say, I still blame myself.”   
“Realistically, what could you have done?”  
“Don’t know. Moved faster. Fought harder. Not gotten stuck under that damned machine. All that matters is, I failed to keep my unit safe. The one point where my duties to the Flames and my oaths as a Paladin intersected. So stop trying to tell me I’m not to blame, because I am.”  
In the wake of her proclamation, the silence grew, a darkness filled only by the sounds of the sea. Moments stretched into minutes, her exhausted brain running in endless circles as images — from reality, this night’s dream, and previous nightmares — marched across her mind’s eye. She couldn’t change the past. Couldn’t even come close to atoning for it. Every time, she vowed to be better in the future. But somehow it never happened.  
A quiet creak sounded as a door opened. Chris looked up, past Danelle — who had also turned her head — and for a moment saw two figures silhouetted against the dim glow that came from inside the captain’s cabin, before the door was closed once more. The ears and tail were obvious, as there were no Miqo’te on the crew, but the identity of the other figure wasn’t apparent until they began to walk across the deck. There was no mistaking the sound of that limp, one heavy footfall followed by a second, slower step. What were those two talking about past midnight?  
She continued to spy, unashamed. After all, Danelle was watching, too. The two men walked to the rail, some distance away towards the arse end of the boat, conversing in a low tone that she couldn’t make out. She didn’t need to hear their words to notice the captain’s hand rest on the top of C’loren’s left hip, though. Woah. That wasn’t okay, was it? He had to be nearly twice C’loren’s age! They exchanged a few more words before the captain’s hand slipped back around C’loren’s back into his own pocket and he turned away, going back into his cabin.  
C’loren watched until the cabin door closed, then turned to the sea, leaning on the railing as the boat rocked. Chris felt she should say something, let him know they were there, but the moment had passed. If she said something now, it would just be odd. Danelle seemed to share her thoughts on the matter, watching C’loren quietly for a few minutes before quietly packing up her belongings. It was the sharp click of the lid to a jar of ink that made C’loren turn, ears twitching back as he looked around the deck, one hand reaching behind his back.  
“I didn’t know anyone was out here,” he said as he caught sight of them, dropping his hand to his side without drawing his gun. “Why aren’t you asleep?”  
“Why aren’t you?” Danelle asked, her voice even as she turned the question right back around on him.  
“Fair enough,” he said with a nod, visibly relaxing. “It’s just that kind of night, it seems.”  
“Hey C’loren, what’s—” Chris’s intended statement was disrupted by a sharp shake of Danelle’s head, directed right at her. She quickly adjusted her words, scrambling for a more innocent question to ask. “—the arse end of a boat called again?”  
He stepped over closer to them, the little lantern casting light on his baffled expression. “Aft,” he said, pointing back towards the cabin. “It’s called aft. We’ve been over this. Twice.”  
“Thrice,” Danelle corrected.  
“Well I keep forgetting, okay? Nobody uses normal words on boats, it’s very confusing. And I’m tired.” She was. She didn’t look forward to closing her eyes again, but she had to try eventually. If not tonight, then tomorrow, or the next night. She couldn’t stay awake forever.  
“See you tomorrow, then.” C’loren raised a hand in farewell.  
Danelle looked over to her and nodded. “Good night, Chris. I’m glad we talked.” There was no smile on her lips, but her words were warm. She seemed sincere.  
Chris nodded in return, planting both feet solidly on the deck before standing, careful not to trip as the boat moved beneath her. It hadn’t been as unpleasant of a chat as she would’ve expected. One of the biggest mysteries in their group had been why C’loren and Danelle got on so well. At first she’d thought it had been romantic, but that clearly wasn’t the case. The platonic friendship hadn’t made much sense at all. She still didn’t fully understand it, but she thought she might be beginning to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's always interesting, and not always in a good way, when characters aren't as forthcoming with information as they should be. In this case, it took me until chapter 9 or 10 to realize one of my main characters had a drinking problem. This had not come up when I went through the basic questionnaire("And what do you drink when you're at the tavern? Are you a moody drunk, or a silly drunk? Do you like to dance, or keep to yourself?" etc). Everybody lies, indeed. I feel like Gregory House right now, with Danelle as my avatar to rip the facts from the lies and make my last-minute, lifesaving diagnosis. Or something like that.


	12. Wind and Fire

It was yet another warm day on the ocean. Their thirty-eighth day on the open seas, by Rororiku’s count, and the first where he had awoken without missing the feel of solid ground beneath his bedroll. He wasn’t sure if they’d passed into the Glass Ocean yet, or if they were still sailing upon the Sirensong Sea. Such distinctions seemed meaningless outside of maps. The water didn’t know any different, after all.  
“Rororiku!”  
He turned, hearing C’loren calling his name. The Miqo’te sat atop a barrel, working with some rope. He’d taken on many duties to assist the deckhands on the voyage. Clearly, the man had some history with the sea. Equally obviously, he missed it something fierce. Rororiku hadn’t gotten to know C’loren too well over the course of their journey so far, but one thing he did know was that he hadn’t seen C’loren as obviously at home any other place except for this ship.  
“Hey, come here!” C’loren called again, beckoning Rororiku over. He obliged, walking away from the ship’s side towards the seated Miqo’te.  
“Did you need something?”  
“Yeah, I need your fingers. Can you get this knot undone for me? Someone pulled it as tight as it can go, and my fingers are too big. I can’t get in there to loosen it any.”  
“Oh, no, no, no!” Rororiku took two steps back from the proffered rope, warding it away with both hands. “You know I won’t touch anything on this ship I don’t absolutely have to!”  
“You’re not going to wreck the ship,” C’loren said with a sigh.  
“I might not, but the curse will, sure as rain!”  
“Nothing—” C’loren broke off at Rororiku’s look, shaking his head. “Okay, after the cannon that very first day — which you hadn’t even gone near, let me remind you — nothing’s happened! I’m not going to argue about whether the curse is real or not, but it seems to be dormant for the time being.”  
“Untrue!” Rororiku protested, crossing his arms. “Those water barrels got knocked over, vilekin got in the flour, the spare whatsit rotted out, the captain’s spyglass went for a swim—”  
“That doesn’t count,” C’loren interrupted. “Besides, I got it back. Half those things you mentioned were well underway before we boarded, and the water barrels were nobody’s fault but the fools who decided the storeroom was the best place to settle that fistfight. The curse wasn’t responsible for any of that, it’s just normal things going wrong.”  
“If you say so,” Rororiku said, his disagreement displayed in the deep frown that tugged both corners of his mouth down and knotted his brow. “I’m still not getting near that undoubtedly vital piece of rope. Wouldn’t want the mast to come crashing down next.”  
“Why would the—” C’loren began to ask, then shook his head, setting the rope aside. “Nevermind. Dani has small fingers, I’ll ask her for help later.”  
“Oh, she’s Dani now?” Rororiku raised an eyebrow.  
“To her friends, yeah,” C’loren replied, resting his hand on top of his raised knee as he looked up at the sky. “She’s not always so formal, you know. Only most of the time.”  
“Can’t say I’ve ever seen it.”  
“Like I said, most of the time.” As C’loren finished speaking, a cry came from the lookout overhead.  
“Vessel sighted off the starboard side, flying no colors! Looks to be changing course to intercept!”  
C’loren’s attention snapped back to the deck, reaching for his gun and beginning to load ammunition in even as he spoke. “Looks like we’ve got company. Got your rapier?”  
“In the hold, with the rest of our things,” Rororiku said, his head spinning. It was going to be a fight? They’d only just spotted the ship, who’d said anything about fighting? It was possible they just wanted to exchange a friendly wave.  
“You’d best go get it,” C’loren said, clicking the barrel of his gun into place. “There’s a good chance we’ll need it.”  
“You might be wrong,” Rororiku said, his voice shaking with nerves. The last fight they’d been in hadn’t gone terribly well, and this time they were on hostile terrain!  
“Hope I’m wrong all you want,” C’loren said, shrugging his shoulders to loosen them as he stood. “But I suggest you prepare as if I’m right.”

\- - -

C’loren could see the ship now, closing in at a troubling rate. She was fast. As the lookout had reported, she flew no colors, and was on a direct intercept for their path. Pirates, then, or something along those lines.  
“I’d hoped we wouldn’t find trouble.”  
C’loren turned. Edbert had come up behind him, spyglass in hand, his expression grim. “Anyone you know?” C’loren asked, and the captain shook his head.  
“Not that I can tell from here. Just the usual sort of trouble that sails the southern seas.” He sighed, fingering the hilt of the short sword he wore at his belt. “You’d best join your Lalafell friend below decks, we’ll be in range of the broadside soon.”  
“Excuse me?” C’loren didn’t even try to keep the incredulity out of his voice as he looked at the ship’s captain, his fingers tightening around the grip of his gun. “You said if we find trouble, everyone fights. That’s what I agreed to.”  
“Yeah, I know I said that.” Edbert looked out to sea, his voice gruff. “I’m letting you off the hook. This looks like bad news.”  
“No,” C’loren replied, shaking his head. He wasn’t some delicate little kitten who needed protecting. He’d been in naval fights before. He knew how to handle himself. “You might not know this about me, but I’m not the kind of man who backs down just because there’s a couple guns pointed at me. I said I’ll fight, I meant it, and I still do. You don’t need to hide me away to keep me safe, and I’m a bit—”  
He was interrupted by a distant report, followed by the splash of a cannonball hitting water not far off the starboard side. A warning shot. They had no time for this argument. Edbert knew it too, his mouth tightening as he turned to the rest of his crew, shouting orders. They’d finish the discussion later.  
C’loren stayed light on his feet, stepping out of the way of crew as they hurried along the boat, readying for the fight. He stopped a few paces beyond the starboard cannons, right by the entrance to the captain’s quarters. The stairs up to the quarter deck would provide adequate cover from an initial starboard bombardment, and he might even be able to take a few shots of his own once the ships closed.  
A flash of shimmering blue caught his eye, distracting him from the approaching ship. Dani, accompanied by her faerie, Maia, were behind him, armed with her well-used codex. Her expression was wary, but she appeared better prepared than most of the ship’s crew.  
“I’m glad you’re here,” he said, meaning it. Things could turn ugly fast when cannonballs started flying. He’d seen what one of those could do to a man unlucky enough to get hit.  
“I’ll shield us the best I can, but there’s little I can do for the ship. If it breaks apart—”  
He shook his head, silencing her. “We won’t let them do that. Look. Remember what you did in the tavern, the night we met? To that Au Ra prick?” He waited for her nod, then continued. “Okay. Would that set something on fire, if it was flammable?”  
She thought for a moment, frowning. “It depends. What do you need to ignite?”  
“Here,” he said, fumbling in the special pouch at his waist until he came up with a dark, tapered pellet. He pressed the special bullet into the palm of her hand. “When one of these breaks, hot pitch goes everywhere. We call it wildfire. I don’t have what I need to light it myself, but can you?”  
She studied the pellet for a moment, then shook her head. “I can make it hotter after you fire, which will cause the pitch to spread better. However, I don’t believe I could ignite it. Rororiku could.”  
“Right.” Damn. Well, it had been worth a try. “He’s in the hold. I don’t expect I’ll see him before the fighting starts.”  
“I’ll find him,” she said, grasping C’loren’s shoulder with a brief, light touch that only lasted a moment. Then she was gone, long, quick strides carrying her across the deck towards the hatch.  
C’loren turned back towards the approaching ship, eyes widening in anticipation as he noted their approach. They were nearly within proper cannon range. He heard the captain’s command roar above him, answered with the louder roar of the Dawn Serpent’s starboard cannons. He braced himself behind the stairs, the scent of spent black powder washing over him. The return volley missed, some flying high while others fell short, hitting only the ocean. Despite the larger number of guns, it seemed they were piss-poor shots.  
He steadied his gun on the rail, sighting down the barrel with one eye. The other ship was still too far, out of range of any accurate sharpshooting. He had to wait until they were closer to go after the crew, but until then, he could set up the show. Another volley was traded, this time a shot coming within a yalm of where C’loren had sheltered. Gods, that was too close. He re-loaded the gun with a pitch pellet, aiming high as he shot towards the other ship. There was no way to tell how accurate his shot had been, but he re-loaded and fired again, and again, stopping to hide only when under fire. Then he was up again, determined for at least some of his shots to hit their distant mark.  
It was on the fifth return volley that disaster struck. He heard the splintering of wood first, followed by a scream. There was a hole through the rail between the cannons, the aft gun standing unmanned. The deckhand who’d been stationed at that cannon lay a short distance away, her arm bent at an agonizing angle. Dani was already moving, good. The cannon was still unmanned, ready to fire. He shoved his gun back into its holster and vaulted the stairs, checking the machine over. It was ready to fire, but he had to wait for the signal.  
The command came. The fuse lit, he turned away, bracing himself against the roar of the blast. Spotting Chris, he waved her over as he turned back to the cannon. The steps came back to him, as easy as swimming: secure, clear, load and fire. He threw his weight against the cannon, shoving it back to its proper position. Taking shelter behind it as the return volley came, he looked to Chris, now at his side. Her eyes were wide, clearly unfamiliar with naval combat.  
“Get me one of those!” He shouted over the noise, gesturing to the crate of ammunition. Chris nodded, scrambling across the deck after it was clear. C’loren didn’t waste time watching, moving instantly with the sponge to clean the barrel. Powder went in, then Chris was there with the ball. Turning the long tool around, he rammed the contents down to the base of the cannon.  
“Do you need the fire yet?” Chris yelled. C’loren nodded, and she turned, signaling behind them. Fire bloomed across the hull of the enemy ship. That was no good. It wouldn’t take down there. “The sails!” C’loren yelled. Chris looked at him in confusion, and he pointed to the other ship. “The sails will catch!”  
Understanding bloomed across her face and she nodded. As she took off running across the deck a blast of wind came, nearly knocking her off her feet. The Dawn Serpent was forced to the side, driven away from their target. C’loren swore under his breath. They couldn’t aim like this! The sails adjusted, but it was too late. Their course had already been altered. Good news was, the other ship had to adjust as well. They had time. As the ships maneuvered back into battle positions, the enemy ship seemed to be under fire, though not from their own cannons.  
Finally back in position, the order to fire came and he lit the fuse, bracing as the blast came. Simultaneously, thunder boomed in the clear sky, the combined noise assaulting him even as he ducked close to the deck. Bolts of lightning struck down from the heavens, leaving his hair stood up on end. Grasping the metal cannon to steady himself, he focused on his task. Secure. Clear. Chris was back, with a ball to load. As she tipped it into the cannon’s bore, fire burst upon the enemy ship, this time on target.  
The gray sails went up like a sea of grass during a hot summer drought. The expected return volley didn’t come, the other ship drifting on the seas as the fire spread, from pitch, to cloth, to mast. That would keep them busy. The Dawn Serpent caught the sea’s wind, sails unfurling as they turned to flee. Now would be an excellent time for some help, he thought, but the windy spell wasn’t coming. Turning from the cannon — they probably wouldn’t need to fire it, and even so, anyone could light the fuse at this point — he scanned the deck, looking for the Red Mage.  
Rororiku was braced between two barrels up on the quarter deck, next to where Edbert commanded the wheel. C’loren ran up the stairs and fell to his knees on the upper deck, ignoring the pain as the wood scraped and splintered against his knees.  
“Use the windy spell again!” he said, steadying himself against the barrel with trembling, powder-stained hands.  
“I got yelled at for that!” Rororiku protested, eyes wide. “Aero messes up the boat, he said!”  
“Just give us some wind, man!” Edbert roared, gripping the ship’s wheel tight with both hands.  
Rororiku nodded, holding his weapon aloft, the crystal balanced atop the rapier’s hilt to form a sort of staff. The air currents bent, re-shaping to the little mage’s will as he cast his spell. The blast of air made C’loren shiver, even sheltered as he was by the barrels, but more importantly filled the Dawn Serpent’s sails. The golden cloth strained against the ropes that bound it to the masts, the emerald serpent on the main sail above their head bulging under the force of the sudden gale.  
Edbert struggled to hold the ship on course, his jaw set and knuckles white as he clutched the wheel. As the wind subsided, C’loren looked back behind them. The other ship wasn’t following, its entire rigging now aflame, an awe-inspiring sight that sent a shiver of delight through his body. With any luck, the Dawn Serpent would be long gone before they managed to repair the other ship. That counted as a victory, in his book. But what had the cost been?

\- - -

“Light duty for now,” Danelle said, adjusting the Hyur deckhand’s sling. “I’ll re-examine you in a few days time, and determine if you require more rest.”  
“I can’t be on light duty forever,” the woman complained, fingering the heavy cloth wrapped around her arm and shoulder. “We’ve got a ship to run, you know!”  
“You’re lucky we had a chirurgeon on board,” another member of the crew — an older Hyur man — snapped, fixing her with an ice-cold stare. “Back in my day, someone took a hit from artillery, you’re out for weeks. If you’re lucky. If you ain’t, well, that’s a whole other thing. ‘Course I’ve never seen a magic-useing chirurgeon who does her thing without a staff before, but there’s a first time for everything I suppose.”  
“I’m not a Conjurer,” Danelle explained, neatly folding the unused medical supplies to be stowed. “I’m a Scholar, of the Arcanist’s Guild in Limsa Lominsa.”  
“Ain’t ever heard of that either,” the man said with a rough shrug. “The Scholar business, I mean. Everyone knows about the Guild.”  
That was hardly a surprise. Nobody had heard of Scholars. Hence why she was halfway around the world, pursuing the only other known individual who knew anything of worth regarding the lost Scholarly arts of Nym. If only the Warrior of Light was known for answering Guild summons in a timely manner. She sighed shortly, tucking the last of the bandages away in the crate.  
“I didn’t mean to be ungrateful,” the woman said, mistaking the cause of Danelle’s sigh. “I am, truly. I just hate to sit around and be a burden when there’s work that needs done.”  
“Nonsense.” Any reply Danelle would have made was preempted by the arrival of Captain Edbert in the bulkhead doorway. He looked exhausted. “We’ve got plenty of hands to divide the labor, for now. Rest up while you can. We’ll soon be in port, and I’ll need you healed up by then. A hold full of cargo doesn’t unload itself.”  
“Aye,” the deckhand nodded to her captain, seeming appeased for the moment. She slipped off the makeshift examination table, leaving in the direction of the crew bunks. With a glance at the captain, the other deckhand followed. Captain Edbert remained, hands clasped behind his back as he looked around the cramped space. Irritation settled in the pit of her stomach, though she kept her expression clear. Circumstances had been far from ideal. He didn’t have the right to judge her results when she’d had so little to work from.  
“I wanted to thank you and yours,” he said finally, the unexpected words throwing all her prepared explanations out the window. “That was a nasty run-in. Don’t go sharing this with the crew, but between you and me, I don’t think we would have made it, going head-to-head against that ship. Not only were they faster than us, but we were badly out-gunned. Words can’t describe how grateful I am for your aid, during and after the battle.”  
“You’re very welcome,” she replied, recovering from the shock enough to string polite words together. “It was part of our agreement when we came on board, after all.”  
“True, but I have to confess I’d underestimated your abilities. Your little friend, he’s not a Thaumaturge, is he?”  
She shook her head. “He’s a Red Mage.”  
“Hmm,” the captain said, stroking his beard for a moment before shaking his head. “Can’t say I’ve ever heard of the like. Damned useful, though. Especially if you could train one up with enough sailing experience to know when not to conjure up a windstorm. I might look into recruiting one for my crew.”  
“I’d imagine their services would be expensive.” She closed the crate of supplies, stowing it beneath the table.  
“Aye,” the captain nodded. “You’re probably right, at that. Ah well, maybe some day.”  
“Are we far out from Kugane?” she asked, closing her codex and clasping the well-worn book to her chest with both arms.  
“About a week, by my reckoning.”  
She was glad to hear it. It wasn’t that she minded sailing, but rather that she had a task to complete. The next step awaited her in Kugane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will you look at that, Rororiku finally figured out his basic rotation. I guess all that practice with the laundry combat dummy paid off.
> 
> So, is the curse real, or all in his head? :o


End file.
